A Very Potter Playbook
by ChimericalParoxysm
Summary: A whirlwind of obnoxious play-by-plays as we watch the Holyhead Harpies kick butt. By which I mean that this is my compilation of submissions for the QLFC *wink*
1. The Art of Friendship

A/N: My submission for QLFC Round 2 as Beater 2: Inter-House Friendship. This is an offshoot from my Michael Corner-centric fic _The Heart of War_ and is set during the trio's would-be 7th year.

xxx

Michael crept through the early morning darkness of Hogwarts' corridors. It was the only time Hogwarts was truly peaceful. The only time the Carrows weren't watching.

"Ready?" Neville whispered beside him.

Michael nodded, a nervous grin spreading across his face. "Always."

Things had been subtler this far: "Dumbledore's Army: Still Recruiting" on a solitary wall a couple times a week. Tonight was going to be something else. Tonight the DA was deployed in pairs throughout the school—and their message was going to be just as clear: Hogwarts may not be theirs anymore, but they sure as hell weren't going to go down without a fight.

Michael had never given much thought to Neville Longbottom, at least not once the DA had ended. But when Death Eaters had flooded the school at the end of 6th year, Michael had finally seen his peer—really seen him—for the first time… and the guy was a Gryffindor through and through.

Neville glanced at a Muggle watch on his wrist, then fished a galleon out of his pocket. "Let's do this, then," he said. He muttered a few words over the galleon and returned it to his pocket.

A matching galleon in Michael's pocket warmed as it did in ten or so other pockets. He gripped his wand more tightly. His heart pounded, as though he were standing at the edge of a cliff, preparing to plunge into the water below. _Finally_. And he began to spell words onto the walls of the Entrance Hall.

An hour later they were all back in the Room of Requirement looking into one another's flushed faces, and Michael saw all his own emotions reflected in the faces around him. They were finally _doing_ something, their expressions said. They didn't have to be mice anymore.

Neville's face told a different story. He was calm and focused. This was just one element in a long-reaching plan for him. Nothing, compared to the things he'd done and the things he planned to do. Michael envied him, admired him, wanted in.

The group gradually dispersed, those already in hiding off to their bunks, the others to their dormitories. Michael stayed behind and watched a moment as Neville stared down at a blueprint of Hogwarts.

"Look, mate," he said at last, "I… I wanted to thank you."

Neville glanced up at him, confused.

"You've no idea, have you?" Michael said. "You don't understand what it is you're doing for everyone. Neville, mate, you're _freeing_ us. All the anger and the fear… you're giving us the chance to turn it to strength." He gripped Neville's shoulder. "So thank you."

It was the first of many nights spent with Neville in the Room of Requirement. Nights spent tense and waiting. Nights spent blowing off steam. Nights spent quietly planning.

Then Michael was caught by the Carrows. They'd been furious, searching for an outlet for all their frustrations, in desperate need of someone to make an example of. When Michael stumbled into the Room of Requirement some days later, it was Neville who reached him before he collapsed as everyone looked on in shock.

"Thanks, mate," he mumbled into Neville's shoulder. Pain didn't just radiate through his body; pain was his entire existence.

"You can let go now, Mike," Neville said. "Sleep awhile."

xxx

When Michael awoke, Neville was reading at his side. Michael's body was on fire. He could barely breathe for the pain, but he cleared his head as best he could. "What's the damage?"

Neville looked up and shut his book, his expression dark. "We've done what we can, but we aren't properly trained, mate, and we don't know what we're dealing with." His gaze drifted out the window. "Hannah's spent days doing her best, but… Maybe if we knew what all had been done to you…" Neville forced himself to meet his friend's eyes. "There's some curse undoing all our healing. We can't make it stick."

Michael swallowed hard. "How bad?"

Neville fixed him with a somber look—one with which Michael was all too familiar.

"Ah." Michael's thoughts swam. Was this really for him? Was he really done? He thought of Cho, of Terry, of his family.

No.

He wasn't ready to leave them. They still needed him to help them get through this bloody war. And he still needed them.

"Better get me in on the research then," he said, grimacing in pain as he swiped the book from Neville's lap.

Neville stared at him, a glimmer of hope rekindled in his eyes as he conjured a new pile of books from the Room of Requirement's magical horde. Michael grinned back and cracked open the book.

They passed the day pouring over tomes filled with obscure knowledge and technical academic jargon, searching for the curse to no avail. Some students came to help while others carried on with missions, but by the time the sun began to rise again in the sky, they had still found nothing.

Hannah had grown exhausted from casting constant and ineffective healing spells over him, and Michael had long since sent her to rest. His condition was worsening, he knew. Blood loss made him weak and blurred his vision. He felt slow and heavy, and everything felt very confusing. He barely even startled when Neville growled and threw his current text across the room with a crash.

Hannah started awake and crossed the room to them. "Neville," she said softly, her hand resting on his, "We'll figure this out."

"No. We won't." He stood abruptly. "We don't even know what we're looking for!"

"We need Madam Pomfrey," someone said. Michael wasn't sure who. His head was swimming, and everything had gone dark.

"Cho, we can't—"

"She's right. There's no other option."

"She's _watched_!"

"He'll _die_!"

"I have an idea…"

xxx

The first thing he noticed was that the pain had eased. He flexed his muscles slightly, testing them out. They were sore, and tingled strangely, but he could live with that for now. His vision had returned, and his mind was clear, and that was more important.

Neville was once more at his side. "Welcome back."

"Thanks, mate. Though I was a gonner for a while there."

"So did we. Would've been if it weren't for Madam Pomfrey."

"_What_?" Michael stared at him, aghast. "How did you-?"

"House elf. We had to pretend there was a medical emergency in the kitchens, and she couldn't stay long, so you're on strict bed rest for—"

"She'll still be punished, Neville! You shouldn't have—"

"Yeah," Neville interrupted. "She will. But she'll live. And more to the point: so will you."

Michael swallowed his protests. He knew his friend well enough to know it had been a tough call to make… just like all the others were. Neville put people at risk on a regular basis, was always balancing the pros and cons, was always performing risk analyses and asking others to make sacrifices. He gripped Neville's forearm weakly and said nothing more about it.

"So… bed rest, you say?" He wasn't fond of the idea.

Neville grinned slightly. "Well, it's a relative sort of term here." He dragged a table of maps and tactics over to the bed. "We've got a lot to do, mate."

xxx

Michael was healed in time for the Battle of Hogwarts. Was healed in time to watch good people fall to the savagery of the Death Eaters. Was healed, physically, in time to find himself emotionally shattered.

He stood at funeral after funeral, sometimes tearful, sometimes numb, sometimes furious. He sat at the trials of his torturers and of others, watched as they were sentenced to Azkaban or released back into the public. He watched as the wizarding world struggled to put itself back together—watched as an outsider, lost and uncertain, full of emotion and haunted by flashbacks, by angry outbursts and moments of paralyzing fear.

But, always, Neville stood with him. A reassuring word in his ear, a comforting hand on his shoulder. Neville had seen it all, had been his leader through it all, had given him power and purpose. And now that he needed him for a different sort of hope and strength, Neville was still there.

Michael sipped his tea and reached for a biscuit, at ease in Neville's house—his own second home.

"I finish Auror training tomorrow," he said, excitement making its way into his voice.

Neville nodded. "Harry said he wants you on his team. Says you excel at strategy, keep a clear head, see to the heart of the problem."

Michael's heart leapt. "Tracking Death Eaters?"

"That's right."

"Bloody hell… You're sure?"

Neville smiled. "Harry has a way of making things happen."

"Brilliant," he breathed. It felt like things were finally starting to fall into place.

The friends sat and chatted for a while—about Hannah's takeover of The Three Broomsticks, and about Neville's pending position at Hogwarts. They talked about mutual friends, Quidditch, and the ongoing post-war healing.

"Mate, there was something I wanted to ask you about," Neville said after a while.

Something in Michael's chest tightened. "Everything okay?"

A smile spread across Neville's face. "Better than. Mike… Hannah and I are having a baby."

The tension flew from his body. "For real? Mate, that's fantastic! Congratulations!"

Neville beamed back. "We've talked about it, me and Hannah, and we wanted to ask you… to be godfather to our baby."

"… You're not serious."

Neville's smile softened. "There's no one I'd trust more."

For a moment, Michael could only stare, and then a grin spread across his face, and laughter burst from his lips.

"You'll do it then?"

"Course I will—gotta show the kid the way it's done; kid's got a Gryffindor and Hufflepuff for parents for goodness' sake!" Michael leaned back in his seat, sipping his tea with a stupid grin on his face. He was going to chase after Death Eaters, Neville and Hannah had asked him to be their firstborn's godfather, and he had a date with this cute girl he met the other day. Life was looking up. He stroked a faint scar that remained from his time with the Carrows. It was almost faded.


	2. Kiss and Control

**A/N: QLFC Round 3 **

**Prompts: **

**2 (word) accept  
3 (setting) St. Mungo's**  
**5 (word) unravel**

* * *

Hermione Black, née Granger, was working on a report from home when James' owl arrived. His glossy feathers ruffled, smoothed, and Hermione opened the letter absent-mindedly, her thoughts still on the subject of werewolf rights. She glanced down at James' messy scrawl, her mind growing immediately more alert at the haste that marked his writing. She skimmed the letter in a split second, dove for her wand, and apparated to St. Mungo's.

The corridor outside Sirius' hospital room was a bustle of activity, but Hermione spotted James easily nonetheless. The worry on his face did nothing to alleviate her own.

"What happened? Is he okay? Has anyone said anything? What are they—"

"I haven't heard anything yet, Mione." The hazel eyes that met her own were filled with agony. "It was so bad…"

"Tell me," she said firmly. The look in James' eyes was one she had seen only rarely since she'd arrived, by happy accident, in the Marauders' time. It had happened rarer still since they'd defeated Voldemort (nearly 20 years ahead of schedule). Her experience with that look told her heart to plummet.

"We got separated," he began, running his hand through his hair. "We went out, four of us, to this hideout we'd heard about—some shack in the middle of the forest." He glanced at her face, guilt written on his. "We were told we'd find Bellatrix there. Alone."

Hermione drew a hissing breath, her heart clenching. "He _promised_ me," she breathed. "He promised to let someone else go after her. He swore, after I told him about—"

"I _know_, Mione." James' strangled reply cut her off. Now wasn't the time. "He just…"

"Nevermind that now." She took a deep, fortifying breath. "So it was Bella?" Bella, who had killed Sirius in her original time. Who had tortured her in her original time. Bella, whom she'd come to hate so much more fervently since her time in the past. Bella, who she wished dead, and feared more than all the other surviving Death Eaters combined. But the fire Hermione usually felt when Bella came up in conversation never came. Instead her mind played over and over again the image in her mind of Sirius falling through the veil.

"She wasn't alone. The Lestrange brothers and Barty Crouch were with her, hiding out. We had no idea."

Neville's face flashed before her eyes. Alice's. Frank's. Her stomach lurched.

"It wasn't your fault, Mione," James said. "You warned them. You tried. _They_ tried. We all did."

There were just so many faces.

"I know, James. It's alright. Just finish the story."

He scrutinized her carefully before continuing. "Well… we got separated, like I said." He shifted uncomfortably. "Sirius went chasing after Bellatrix, but I was caught up fighting Crouch. When I finally caught up to them…"

"Did you catch—"

"Crouch? Yeah. And Rabastan."

Hermione shut her eyes and nodded. Bellatrix was still out there. And Sirius was hurt. If he died… A flicker of that fire came back.

"He was bad, Mione. Unconscious. I couldn't wake him up." James stared unseeingly at the wall. "There was so much blood."

Hermione swallowed hard and laced her fingers through his. "You've owled Lily?"

"Yeah. She's taking Harry to Molly's and then she'll be here."

They lapsed into a silence broken soon after by Lily's arrival. She gave them each a strangling hug, ushered them into seats, and got them each a cup of tea. Then they waited.

Hermione drank her cup of tea compulsively, and then several cups more, desperate for something to do. How many times had she been in this very position? Waiting. Worrying. Terrified for the life of someone she cared about. First Harry and Ron. Then an accident in the Time room at the Department of Mysteries shot her back in time and she'd found herself worrying about _everyone_. Somehow their lives had suddenly fallen upon her shoulders, and the weight had been heavy.

But Sirius had always been there.

The three stood together as a mediwizard emerged from the room. He didn't need to ask who they were.

He looked so tired.

"Mrs. Black, I'm happy to tell you that your husband is alive and stable." Lily stopped her from collapsing in relief, despite the "but" that she sensed was about to come. "We've done all we can for Mr. Black for now. The rest is up to him. If he make it through the night, he'll pull through. The only thing now is to wait, and to trust him to fight."

"Can we see him?"

He nodded soberly. "Of course."

The three friends sat at Sirius' bedside through the night, their hearts begging Sirius to fight as he always had. When dawn rose into the sky, he was still clinging as desperately to life as Hermione was to his hand.

"He's going to be okay," she whispered—to the rising sun, to Lily and James, to herself. She squeezed his hand. "You're going to be okay."

The mediwizard returned later that day and more tentatively confirmed this prognosis, and when Sirius woke two days later, his bleary gaze met Hermione's for the space of a heartbeat, and he mumbled, "I'm okay, love," before slipping back out of consciousness.

Hermione was at his side nearly every moment for days, until finally he was properly awake long enough to berate the orderlies for allowing his wife to take such awful care of herself. It was the first real signal that Sirius was well and truly going to be alright, and relief had made her dizzy.

It wasn't until he'd been home for several days that the relief and happiness had faded enough for Hermione's potent anger to begin to catch up with her. He never apologized for going after Bella, and his cheerful obliviousness to how he'd betrayed her trust began to grate on her nerves.

It all came to a head one day, about a week after his release from St. Mungo's, when he returned from a check up. "Cleared for work!" he sang, kissing her on the lips and swinging the fridge open.

Hermione's heart burned with ice and fire simultaneously as fear and anger warred inside her.

She searched for the words to say what she needed to, tried to decide, as she'd been doing for days, how to broach the subject. She still had no idea. "And what is the status of the Bella situation?"

He froze for a fraction of a second, before shutting the fridge and turning back to her. "Look, Hermione, I know you're upset about that—"

And any resolve she'd had to stay calm dissolved immediately.

"_Upset_?" she said. "You promised, Sirius. When I told you how you died, when you signed on to be an Auror, you_ promised_ me you wouldn't go after her!"

"It was a foolish promise to make, Hermione, and I'm sorry that I did. I just wanted to reassure you, you know? You were so worried—"

"Like I was when I got James' owl?"

He winced. "I'm sorry I worried you, love."

"I have spent my entire _life_ worried, Sirius! I didn't ask you not to fight in the war. I didn't ask you not to be an Auror. I didn't ask you not to worry me. All I asked, was that you not go after _her_." Her magic seemed to fizzle in the air around her. In her mind he was falling through the veil again and again. He was always falling through the veil in her mind.

She could see Sirius' patience begin to wear thin. "Going after Bella is _part _of my job as an Auror! You can't honestly expect me to tell my boss, 'No, sorry, can't—my wife made me promise!' can you?"

"Yes," she said angrily. "That's exactly what I expect."

"That's insane. I get that you hate her. I understand that she's a sore spot—"

"She _killed_ you!"

"She didn't," Sirius ground out. "I'm still here. I'm still alive. She killed someone else, Hermione. She killed someone that wasn't me."

Hermione wanted to scream in frustration. "Trying to use that argument, to say that I haven't watched you die, is like saying I haven't lived through two wars against Voldemort."

"Damn it, Hermione. Trying to say Bella is going to kill me just because she did in that time, is like saying Voldemort is magically going to come back and that second war is going to happen anyway!" He sighed heavily. "You changed things, love. I'm not in Azkaban. James and Lily are alive. Voldemort is dead. Things are _different_, Hermione. Everything is different. You can't keep living in a past—a future, whatever—that never happened, that won't happen."

Hermione felt her anger unravel and fall to sadness. "Not everything," she said quietly. "I didn't change everything. Not the Prewitts or the Longbottoms or—"

"It was a war, Hermione." He crossed the kitchen and pulled her into his arms. "People die in war, no matter how much you try to keep everyone safe. You can't control it all." He pulled away slightly and looked down at her. "And you can't expect me to refuse to go after Bella." She watched his eyes harden. "She hurt you. She destroyed Frank and his wife. She can't go free. And I can't let her. I can't risk it. You're just going to have to accept that."

Hermione swallowed thickly. "And if she kills you?"

"She won't," he said fiercely. "But if she does then it is _not_ your fault, Mione. It won't be because of the future. It won't be because it's somehow destined—you've proven that the future isn't written in stone. But she's not going to get me. Because I'm going to get her first."

"I can't have saved everyone only to lose you," she whispered.

Sirius leaned down and kissed her softly. "You won't." He pulled back and she sniffled a little. "Are we okay?" he asked.

Hermione searched her heart. He was right. She knew he was. She couldn't ask him not to go after Bella; wouldn't let _him_ ask _her_ not to if she were in his position. And it wasn't fair to hold him to the promise that he wouldn't. "I guess we are."

He kissed the tip of her nose, then returned to her lips. "I'm glad," he said between kisses. "Because Remus says"—kiss—"he was here the other day"—kiss—"just after the full moon." He pulled back and looked at her. "And he tells me you're pregnant."

Hermione froze. "No," she said. "I can't be."

Sirius smirked. "Au contraire, mon amour. I recall several opportunities having occurred in the last little while, and we haven't exactly been trying _not_ to…"

She smacked him, her mind whirring. "Shut up. I'd have noticed…" She'd been dizzy a lot lately. And definitely a bit mood swingy. When was her last period? "Except, you know… with everything that's been going on lately… And I've been making such phenomenal progress at work, and—"

Her words stopped flowing as Sirius' pregnancy test spelled out a positive result over her stomach. "Merlin," she breathed, but that was all she had time to say as Sirius whooped, and captured her in a deep kiss.

"I think this calls for some celebrating," he whispered huskily.

"But… there's so much to do, Sirius. We should sit down and—"

He cut her off with another kiss. "You can overthink it all later, love. Promise." And he led her off to the bedroom without another word.


	3. Inexorable Dog

My submission for QLFC Round 4 as Beater 2 for the Harpies.

Emotion: Grief

Prompts: "Tranquil" (word), "skip" (word)

_And a super special thanks to Lizzie for being a fantastic beta!_

* * *

"Black, I will of course need you to remain behind," Snape sneered. "To inform Dumbledore of the situation. I'm sure you'll understand."

Number 12, Grimmauld Place had always been drafty and cold, but Remus swore he felt the temperature rise as anger consumed Sirius' face. "I bloody well will not." His wand was in his hand, raised and ready to go, eager to fire off a hex or a curse at the first sign of opportunity.

The rest of the present Order members exchanged glances. Tonks bit her lip. "You can't really be thinking of going to the _Ministry?_"

"It would be far wiser for you to stay here," Kingsley chimed in. "And someone _must_ inform Dumbledore."

Remus opened his mouth to speak, but it seemed that everyone else was already talking at once. Sirius was, as usual, the loudest of all, yelling something about protecting his godson. His fingers trembled briefly before clenching into fists. There was no hope of Remus being heard over the din.

Until Sirius smashed his fist onto the table. "Enough!" he roared.

The room fell silent. "This is ridiculous," Remus interjected quickly.

"Indeed," Severus drawled. "Perhaps _you__'__ll_ be able to rein in your d—"

"Harry is in danger," Remus said before Severus could finish the word. "He and his friends are alone in the Department of Mysteries with Merlin only knows how many Death Eaters. There isn't _time_ to stand around arguing about—"

"I'm not staying."

Remus eyed Sirius carefully. "You're sure you want to go to the Ministry?" he asked, meaning edging his words. He felt his heart skip a single, solitary beat as the implications crashed through his mind: if Sirius set foot in the Ministry of Magic, he wasn't coming back out a free man.

"Of course I am," Sirius snarled, though Remus could see a hint of fear in his eyes.

Remus sighed. "Then you'll come." Severus opened his mouth to protest, but Remus cut across him. "You'll stay, Severus. You're more important to us as a double agent than as a second man in hiding. Tell Dumbledore yourself."

Kingsley looked from man to man. "I'm not certain this is the wisest course of—"

"Harry is in trouble," Tonks said abruptly. "Anyone going to stop Sirius?"

The answering silence was answer enough for Remus. He looked back at Sirius, at the gratitude on his face, and swallowed thickly. "Good," Remus said, wishing his heart would resume its usual course. "Then let's get going."

They Apparated away immediately, landing in the street outside the Ministry and entering as quickly as possible.

Remus felt agitated, even antsy, as they ran through long and dark corridors and dove into rooms with walls that spun around—but Sirius bounded along, life in his face for the first time in months. He looked almost . . . tranquil. Any doubt Remus had entertained vanished when he saw that look. Sirius was meant to go out with a bang, and nothing short of death could have kept him from this particular fight, could have kept him from Harry.

"Thanks, mate," Sirius managed as they ran.

Remus shook his head, but couldn't find words for any of the things he wanted to say. It felt important to say _something__—_like he'd never have another chance—but the words wouldn't come. What if this was the last time he ever saw Sirius? What if Fudge wouldn't allow any visitors? What if they could never clear Sirius' name?

Sirius must have noticed something was wrong. As they plunged back into the spinning room to check another door, Sirius gripped Remus' shoulder. "It'll sort itself out, mate. I found my way out of Azkaban once; I'll make it out again."

Some fierce emotion snagged at Remus' heart. "This time you won't be alone."

The room stopped spinning and Kingsley rushed forward to open a door. "I hear something! This way."

They burst through a series of rooms, splitting into two groups to cover more ground. The shouting grew louder and closer as Sirius and Remus plunged deeper into the Department, until finally they charged through into a room built like a stone stadium, centered around a stone gate and littered with Death Eaters.

Another door crashed open beside them, revealing Kingsley, Moody, and Tonks, the latter of whom immediately shot a spell across the room and dove into the fight.

A moment's breath, a briefly exchanged glance—no room for goodbye in the moment—and the last two Marauders dropped seamlessly into battle.

It took only a moment for Remus to fall into the pattern of it, the give and take. It wasn't a dance to him, but it was fluid and dynamic and it felt a bit like getting back to an old, forgotten habit that filled his veins with adrenaline and put a wild grin on his best friend's face.

It felt a little like old times, back when the Marauders had been whole, and Remus almost expected to see the other two fighting alongside them from the corner of his eye. But of course, James was dead, and Peter was gone, and all he had left was Sirius, who wouldn't be allowed to leave the building a free man.

The ache was only just beginning to creep into Remus' heart when Dumbledore appeared in the fray and the room fell nearly silent. His eyes met Dumbledore's for the brief moment it took Remus to realize Sirius and Bellatrix were still fighting. Remus whipped back around at the sound of Sirius' shouted taunt.

A curse collided with Sirius' chest, throwing him backwards, and then he was falling._ Red_, Remus told himself. _Not green, only red_. As long as it wasn't an _Avada_ there was still hope. He lifted his wand, ready to step in, to protect Sirius, but Sirius kept falling, surprise on his face. Remus watched, helpless, as Sirius fell through the archway, as he disappeared. Gone.

The ache in Remus' chest echoed dully against his ribcage, multiplying in a hollow symphony. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered Harry's desperate dash for Sirius. Remus lunged to catch him, holding him back from the treacherous door to someplace else. Up close, with the battle stilled, Remus could hear the whispers from the archway. He didn't let himself listen for Sirius' voice.

Words were coming out of his mouth in answer to Harry's desperate attempts to wrench free—words as hollow as the feeling in his chest, words he wasn't ready to believe himself. A deafening roar distanced him from his surroundings, but his eyes were fixed on the opening to the other side. He half-expected Sirius to come staggering back through the veil with a smirk on his face, a joke on his lips.

Harry went running after Bellatrix, and still Remus couldn't drag his gaze from the archway. He stood there as Death Eaters were rounded up. As Order members began to leave.

"Remus?" Tonks' voice was soft, but he jumped anyway. "Remus, it's time to go."

"Wait," Remus said, even though he knew there was nothing to wait for.

"Come on, Remus," she said, touching his arm.

"He was right . . . right there."

"I know he was." She was crying, he could hear it in the way her voice wavered. "But now he's gone."

It wasn't until she said it aloud that it hit him, as if from out of the blue: Sirius wouldn't be walking out of here a free man.

Sirius wouldn't be walking out of here _at all_.

"Wait," Remus whispered again, but it was so soft that the voices from the archway drowned him out.


	4. Toujours Pur

My submission for QLFC Round 5 as Beater 2 for the Harpies.

Team Character: Sirius

Beater 2 Year: Sixth

Prompts: 1,234 (word count)(_accurate according to Word_), "ridiculous" (word), "I don't do well with snakes" (dialogue)

_Thanks again, Lizzie (for boosting my self-esteem if nothing else)!_

* * *

"Sirius," Lily whispered. "Shouldn't you be studying for your Potions exam?"

Sirius tore his eyes from the _Daily Prophet_ that so captivated his thoughts. "Who bloody cares?"

Lily frowned. "You have to do well in the exams, Sirius, or else you won't be able to do your NEWT-level—"

Sirius stood abruptly, knocking his books to the floor. The _Daily Prophet_ was still gripped tightly in his fist. "Do you even _know_ what's going on out there, Lils?" he hissed. "How can you even pretend to care about exams?"

Lily stared, bewildered, as Sirius' chest heaved with his silent fury. He never talked about the war. He never spoke much of what he thought at all—nothing that was serious, at least. To her, his words had come out of nowhere. For him, they'd been building for far too long. "Forget it," he muttered.

Lily opened her mouth to protest, but Sirius was already heading for the portrait hole, his mind a sea of doubt and anger.

When he finally burst out into the glaringly cheerful summer day, he made a beeline for the forest and escaped into the cool shadows. His fist collided with the first significantly sized tree he encountered. The pain shot across his knuckles and up through his hand, soothing him giving him something else to focus on. He punched the tree again for good measure.

"What are you doing?"

The question was awkwardly voiced, hesitant. But that didn't matter; it was the voice itself that set Sirius instantly on edge. "Get lost, Regulus."

The voice grew cold and formal. "Suit yourself, then. But I hardly think Mother would approve of such activities."

Sirius' wand was in his hand faster than he could account for. "You may be the favourite, Regulus, but don't suppose that I'm bloody well _jealous_ of your boot-licking. You cozy up to Mother all you like. I don't give a damn what she thinks."

Regulus eyed him with that icy Slytherin look Sirius knew so well. Their entire family had it, though Sirius could remember a time when Regulus hadn't. There had been a time when they'd only been brothers, when Sirius had dragged him into playing pranks and breaking rules. Regulus had always been a mama's boy, but he hadn't always been evil. Sirius felt like punching the tree again.

"Well you _should_—"

"Why, Reg?"

Regulus' words froze on his lips. "Why what?"

"How could you do it? How could you _follow_ that monster?"

Calculated blankness filled Regulus' eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sirius scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. Everyone knows, Reg. Mother's been grooming you since the beginning, and even if she hadn't been, it's not like I don't know who you hang around with here. There's no secret in it. You're going to graduate and then you're going to join him. Just like Bella. Just like Malfoy. You and Barty Crouch make a cute couple, but everyone _knows_, Reg. Everyone knows where you're headed. I know it. Mother knows it. Dumbledore knows it. You're a _Death Eater_." The words flowed more easily than he might have expected. But he'd kept them locked up such a long time, had composed them alone in the darkness so many times, that maybe he just knew them by heart.

"So what if I am?" his brother hissed. "You're just jealous. Jealous Mum always preferred me. Jealous I landed in Slytherin. Jealous—"

"Excuse me?" Sirius let out a bark of laughter. "Have we met? I don't do well with snakes, Reg. Slytherin was never going to be me." He leveled him with a heavy gaze. "I _begged_ not to be put into Slytherin. 'Anywhere but there,' I told the hat. 'Don't let me be like them.' And you think I'm _jealous_?" He eyed his brother with disgust. "You make me sick."

Regulus had lost all of his Slytherin façade and was staring at Sirius wide-eyed. "But… why?"

"You _are_ aware of the fact that I'm friends with Lily 'Mudblood' Evans, aren't you? That I'm in Gryffindor? You recall the past sixteen _years_ of me rebelling against our family's Pureblood insanity? How in the hell did you still think I wanted it all?"

"I… What about the honour of the family?"

"You're grasping at straws," he spat. "Even if I _cared_ about the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, I hardly think killing defenceless Muggles and decimating half the magical community is going to increase its honour, do you?"

Regulus gave him a long look as he collected himself. "No," Sirius interrupted him. "No more choreographed responses from you. No pre-planned rebuttals." He threw the _Prophet_ at Regulus' aristocratic face. "That's your Dark Lord. That's what he stands for. That's an entire _family_, Reg. Mother, father, two daughters, a baby boy. Dead. Slaughtered. Tortured. That's your honour. That's what _our_ family stands for. Can you honestly tell me you don't think that's twisted?"

Regulus remained silent, his gaze on the photograph in the paper, where the Dark Mark writhed in the night sky.

"You think Lucius is a big man for killing children?" Sirius hissed. "You think your Dark Lord has the right of it? Just kill anyone who stands in the way of purity? Kill anyone who isn't like him? Who's next, Regulus? The younger families? Anyone who can't trace back to the founders?"

Still Regulus said nothing.

"What do you suppose the odds are that he even _believes_ this blood purity crap?" His brother's eyes shot to his face. "He's probably just using it to get the purebloods on board with his psychotic genocide. Just wants to kill people. To use the Dark Arts until he's consumed the world." Sirius felt the anger leave him suddenly. He leaned back against the tree he'd punched only minutes before. "Don't do it, Reg," he whispered. "Don't follow him. Don't _kill_ people for this maniac." There was a touch of pleading to his voice, one that spoke of childhood memories and almost-fractured hopes. "Be free of it."

Several heartbeats passed before the lost look on Regulus' face dissolved. "The wizarding world must be cleansed, Sirius."

Sirius felt something inside him break. It snapped in half, splintering through his heart. "Fine," he said. "Just… fine."

"Something going on here?"

Sirius and Regulus looked up to see James entering the forest.

"Nah, mate," Sirius said casually. "Regulus here was just leaving."

The Slytherin looked from James to Sirius and back to James, whose eyebrows were raised in an arrogant dismissal. "Yeah, just leaving. I'll see you back home, Sirius."

"Whatever."

James waited until Regulus had disappeared into the castle before turning back to Sirius. "Lily was worried. Said you seemed upset?"

"I'm not going back." There was a quiet ferocity in the words.

"What?"

"I'm not going back to Grimmauld Place. I'm not going home, Prongs. I can't live with those people. I can't sit in that house. I won't."

There was a long pause. "Come live with us."

Sirius stared at him.

"Mum loves you anyway. She'll probably be ecstatic. _Besides_ think of all the time we'll have for prank planning!" James' words continued, but Sirius barely heard anything he said. A warm glow was easing its way around the splinters in his heart. James threw an arm around Sirius' shoulders. He had a new family now, he reminded himself. A family he was proud of.


	5. Time Keeps on Slipping

Round 6 Submission

Genre: Science Fiction

Prompts:

3\. (opening sentence) Time was running out.

9\. (word) history

10\. (creature) mermaid

* * *

Time was running out. Literally.

Well… not _literally_. There was no hourglass of sand moving inexorably toward some final moment after which there would be—

The point was, things were about to get messy.

Hermione's heart pounded hard inside her chest, as though it knew what was coming and was perfectly ready to make an early escape. It would have to wait. She rushed down the Ministry halls, searching for Harry and Ron; the Aurors had to be informed. Kelso was contacting the Minister.

_Almost there_, she told herself. She rounded the last corner before the lift—_was that a _mermaid?

A moment's distraction and Hermione had collided with something warm and solid before falling promptly to the floor.

"What in the hell are you doing, Granger?"

"Malfoy?" she mumbled, momentarily disoriented. She dragged herself to her feet and looked around uncertainly. "Did you just see a—"

"A mermaid?" he asked almost hopefully.

"Bloody hell. It's advancing too quickly." Hermione bit her lip, immediately absorbed by the logistics, before giving her head a quick shake. She had to get upstairs. Now. The Ministry needed to be evacuated… to start. "Sorry, I've got to go."

Malfoy was quick to follow her forward into the lift. "Granger, I just saw a _mermaid_ in the Department of Mysteries."

Hermione shrugged and slipped into the lift. "Weird things are always going on down here."

He slipped in after her. "That's an understatement. Explain the mermaid."

Hermione jabbed the lift button emphatically. "I can't, Malfoy! It's confidential!" Her voice emerged much more shrilly than she might have liked. These things happen in the face of utter catastrophe.

It was then that the lift ground to a halt and the lights all went out. Sudden and silent; no screech of metal or guttering light, just a sudden and empty darkness.

"_Lumos!_" Draco muttered in the darkness beside her.

The walls of the cave were smooth, eroded, and its floor shimmered with pools of water that explained the salty tang in the air. Hermione strained her senses and picked up on the faint and distant crash of waves on rock. She glanced around them hopelessly for the brief moment before Draco rounded on her.

"What in the bloody hell is going on?"

"I—I think we're in the past, sometime before the Ministry existed, when the location of the Department of Mysteries was, apparently, an underground cave."

A splash sounded in the darkness and they both spun, covering their ears as a terrible noise erupted from the creature that had broken through the surface.

And then they were back in the lift, with the now blinding light glaring down at them. Hermione immediately punched the button repeatedly.

"Mermaid," Malfoy said weakly.

Hermione would have blanched if there had been any blood left in her cheeks. "There was… a bit of a… er…"

"Mishap?" Malfoy supplied.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, exactly. Time is… well we've sort of…"

"Broken it?"

"I—sure, let's go with that. We have no idea what's going to happen, to be honest. Time is going to cease to exist in an ever-increasing area until we can find a way to contain or reverse it. But as to what that means in practice…" She shrugged and poked the button impatiently some more. "We need to evacuate the Ministry immediately."

"You're just going to break the thing, Granger. Stop abusing it."

"You don't_ understand_! That time jump, it was us at the _edge_ of an ever-widening time anomaly. We were on the outer perimeter. If we get deeper inside that space, we could be transported more… bloody hell, I don't know, more _firmly_… into the past and never be able to escape."

Malfoy stared at her.

"I wouldn't make it, Malfoy," she said a bit hysterically. "I couldn't _survive_ in the past with its archaic customs and barbaric traditions."

"We could always end up in the future," he supplied with a smirk.

Hermione might have smacked him if he'd been more than merely an acquaintance. "I suppose that wouldn't be so bad, surely the people of the future have progressed in positive ways, right?"

"You've jinxed it now, Granger. We're going to end up stuck in some dyst—" The world went dark again. "You've got to be kidding me. _Lumos!_"

They were silent for a moment. They were still in the lift, but it was cobwebbed and dusty and clearly not functional.

"You don't think we're in some future in which the Ministry has _closed_ do you?"

Malfoy glanced over at her. "Well… I suppose they might have stopped using the lifts…"

"Apparate to the Atrium?"

"Let's."

The Atrium was no better. Hermione cast a few tentative spells. "There's nothing, Malfoy. Not even the most basic of wards. The Ministry's gone."

Malfoy opened his mouth to reply, but a loud Muggle siren rocketed through the air.

"Illegal time travelers, prepare to be netted!" A voice boomed.

"Netted?" Malfoy scoffed. "What the bloody hell kind of threat is that?"

Hermione was too absorbed by the sudden floating sensation in her stomach to reply, and the next thing she knew she was surround by sleek, curving metal, and colourful flashing lights. There was no one in the room but herself and Malfoy. "It's like a scene out of Star Trek," she murmured.

Malfoy elbowed her. "Granger, get it together. I'm pretty sure we've just been arrested by futuristic Muggle police. What does that even mean? And did I _mention_ the odds of us finding ourselves in a dystopian future?"

The situation crashed back into her. "Arrested?" she whispered harshly. "I don't have time to be _arrested_, I need to figure out how to get us both back home!" She marched to the door and banged on it loudly. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

The door slid open and a strangely dressed woman stepped into the room. "Explain your situation," she said, her voice slightly mechanical-sounded.

Hermione hesitated over the etiquette of possibly asking whether the woman was an android, before immediately launching into a description of events that carefully left out the idea of magic.

"What is your intent in this time?" the woman asked.

"To get out of it," Draco said, speaking for the first time since the woman had entered.

Hermione nodded. "We just want to get back home."

"You are a witch and wizard, yes? From the Old Kingdom of England?"

Hermione stared. "I—what would make you think that?"

"Your genetics. Magical humans died out centuries ago, but not before the genetic markers were decrypted."

Hermione stared, astonished. "You mean you can see, genetically, what gives a person magical abilities?"

"What she _means_," Malfoy cut in, "Is that that obviously means you have proof that we really are from the past and we can be sent back, right?"

The woman looked from Malfoy to Hermione. "Yes. My superior will be with you shortly. In the meantime you may enjoy the view."

Windows immediately opened, revealing not a city scape, but rather the vast expanse of space, flecked with stars, dark and beautiful. The woman left, but Hermione barely noticed. "We're in _space_, Malfoy! Isn't that incredible?"

"We die out."

Hermione spun and looked at him. "Well… the Magical community is very tightly knit. There's not much genetic variety. Birth rates across the Muggle and Magical worlds are dropping… I suppose it's not altogether surprising."

"She probably wasn't supposed to tell us that, I suppose? We can change it, can't we?"

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know. Time is a strange thing. I've spent years studying it in the Department of Mysteries, and all I ever learn about it is that none of the things we ever thing we know about time are true. But maybe." She glanced back out the window. "In the meantime, Malfoy, we're in bloody space!"

He smirked at her. "Granger?"

"Hmm?"

"You are such a nerd."

"They probably have us out here to keep us from seeing anything that might somehow influence the timeline."

"Nerd."

"We _travelled_ hundreds of years into the future and now we're floating through space! I get to be a bit nerdy about it all!"

Malfoy just chuckled.

It was only minutes before someone else arrived—a man, with no android tendencies. "You will come with me," he said in a low scratchy voice.

Hermione and Malfoy followed in silence, taking in the strangeness of their surroundings, Hermione trying fervently to memorize everything she saw. Their destination presented itself as a room with soaring ceilings. A cylinder of light fell through its centre, pulsating and shifting colour.

"How does it work?" Hermione asked hopefully.

"That's for the present to know and the past to guess at," the man said. "Step into the light and tell me when I'm sending you back to. This is all on the honour system, you understand, so I'm trusting you to be honest here."

Hermione bit her lip. If they went back just a _liiittle_ bit earlier… Professor McGonagall's voice sounded through her head, but Hermione ignored it. She couldn't let the time anomaly consume the Ministry. She gave the man a slightly altered time on the same day.

"Wait!" Hermione said. "If we're being sent back in time, there won't be a space station for us to appear in!"

The man eyed Hermione carefully, clearly weighing his possible responses. "We'll be routing you through a location on land that we know for certain will be safe in your iteration of time. There's nothing to worry about."

"So… you're teleporting us, and then shifting us through time?" Hermione asked, curiously.

The man just raised an eyebrow. "Say hello to history for me."

He jabbed a button and her entire body jerked, shivered with some sort of current, and then she was back, Malfoy at her side, somewhere in the general vicinity of London. Hermione breathed deeply. It smelled like home.

"Time to go prevent a crazy time anomaly," Hermione said.

"I'll go with you," Malfoy offered. "If both of us go, maybe they'll be less likely to think you're just screwing with them. Or crazy."

"Gee thanks."

"It's what I do."

"Speaking of which," Hermione said. "What were you doing in the Department of Mysteries anyway?"

If she didn't know any better, she could have sworn she saw Draco Malfoy blush. "That's none of your business, is it?" he said defensively.

Hermione just smirked. "Whatever you say. Let's go save the government."


	6. Diamond in the Rough

Submission for QLFC as Beater 2 for the Harpies.

Prompts:

12\. (poem) 'Risk' by Anais Nin

13\. (creature) spider

* * *

Narcissa wasn't sure how long she'd been working in the garden; certainly long enough that the sun had crept up over the rooftops to shift the shade away from where she sat. Working in the garden. If the pureblood elite could see her now… But they couldn't. Or at least no one had yet. And it had been years now, since she'd fled the wizarding world. Years since the war had ended, since she'd last held her son in her arms, or kissed her husband. She pushed the hideous red hair (no one would expect her to look like a Weasley) from her face with the back of her wrist and retreated to the cool shadow of an old oak tree. She didn't worry about the state of her dress, or the mud on the ground. She hadn't worried about those things in a long time.

She watched as a spider weaved its web in a nearby juniper bush, delicate threads winding together. Some days she felt like the spider, creating a home, a life for herself. Some days she felt more like the web, holding on by a single thread, braving the world while knowing a strong breeze would dash it to pieces.

Her son would be grown now. Some days she liked to picture him happily married, a child or two to brighten his days. Other days she tried to forget he'd ever existed.

The leaves of the oak rustled above her in a gentle breeze. The sun shone on. Everything continued as it was always meant to. Everything but Narcissa, who had left everything she was meant to be behind… and still couldn't figure out why.

The war had ended. Voldemort was defeated. Trials were beginning. The world was almost ready to start repairing itself. The day she left had been a day like any other. Except that it had changed everything. _Everything_. Narcissa had been standing at the window of her bedroom in the Manor, staring unseeingly out at the grounds. She remembered seeing her own face, reflected in the glass. An emotion had welled in her then. She thought maybe it was fear, a desperate need for—something. Then there was a blank in her memory. A leap in logic, a decision-making process and series of actions that blurred together, unreachable. The next thing she knew she had Apparated away, packed bags, Polyjuice Potion and all.

Maybe the wizarding world had been ready to start healing… but Narcissa Malfoy hadn't been.

At first she'd tell herself, "Tomorrow. I'll go home tomorrow." For days in a row that's what she told herself, but slowly the promises changed. They became, "Next week," then "For Draco's birthday. Definitely by then," "I won't miss Christmas," "I'll be back in time to see the flowers bloom around the Manor," and eventually Narcissa had been gone so long she stopped pretending she was going back.

She hated herself for it, make no mistake, but somehow, no matter how she shouted at herself, cajoled herself, she couldn't force herself back home. Years had passed, and she'd long since convinced herself that they were happier without her, that going home would cause them more pain than staying away. But in her heart, Narcissa knew that she stayed away for herself, that she was selfish to her very core.

The spider's web grew larger and larger. She wondered if it felt fear. If that was what drove it to weave its delicate webs. If it feared hunger, feared having nowhere to belong.

Narcissa did. She feared going home and starving for love and forgiveness. She feared going home and finding just how far she'd strayed from belonging. She was afraid to work up the courage to face her son and her husband, only to find that they really _didn't_ want her. She was afraid to face her own reflection. She hadn't looked on her own face since that night at Malfoy Manor. And she wasn't sure she ever wanted to again.

"Sure look deep in thought today, Ciss."

Narcissa jerked from her thoughts to frown at the woman, a Muggle neighbour (named Marsha, of all things), who found it funny to shorten her name so. They'd had the fight so many times she didn't bother any longer; the woman was impossible to reason with.

"Anything in particular on your mind?"

She glanced at the dumpy woman with disdain, but something about her expression gave her pause. "Home," she said at last.

Marsha hesitated, tucking a wisp of greying hair behind her ear. Narcissa wasn't one for talking. "You miss it?"

Narcissa jerked a terse nod.

"Only one thing to do then," Marsha said.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow—elegant as ever.

"Go back."

"It's not that simple," Narcissa scowled.

Marsha smiled gently. "Nothing worthwhile ever is."

Xx

It took Narcissa most of the rest of the day to make up her mind, but once she had, the decision was set in stone. She was going home. Her fingers trembled as she did up the zipper on her final bag. It was time, she reminded herself forcefully. It was time to be herself again, to slip back into the skin that she had recoiled from years before. It was time to blossom, to find her strength.

The transformation from red head to Black hit her like a Stupefy to the stomach. Unfamiliar pain ricocheted through her bones, burned across her skin. And then it was done.

She didn't look for a reflection, but gripped her bag tightly, far tighter than necessary, and Apparated into the front foyer of Malfoy Manor with a soft '_pop_.'

It looked just as she remembered. Tasteful, elegant, glimmering. Home.

Warmth washed over her in a way she'd forgotten existed, and for a moment, she forgot to be afraid. All the felt was _right_.

And then a baby cried in a nearby room and the fear swept back in. She followed the sound to a floor-level room that led out into the gardens. The room itself was beautiful, one of Narcissa's favourites, but the scene within was what drew her eye, and it was perfect. Draco stood near the windowed doors, a smile on his face as he watched his beautiful wife—Astoria, of course, she should have known—as she gently bounced his beautiful baby in an effort to soothe his cries.

Narcissa hesitated at the doorway, fear freezing her mid-stride, but the movement caught his eye regardless.

"_Mother_?"

Narcissa swallowed with difficulty and nodded. "It's me." She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the windows and realized it was true.

He stared at her hard for a long moment, and then suddenly he strode across the room and pulled her into a tight embrace and her heart was bursting from the confines of the cage in which she'd placed it. A hundred thousand flowers bursting into bloom.


	7. Living High

Holyhead Harpies' Beater 2 Submission for QLFC

Character: Lucy Weasley

Prompts:

6\. (quote) 'The higher you climb, the further you have to fall.' - Malorie Blackman, Noughts &amp; Crosses

9\. (colour) periwinkle

* * *

She had to hand it to the Muggles: they knew how to party. The beat of the club pounded through her, pulsing along with the flow of the blood in her veins. It brought her to life in a way nothing else did. People crashed and grinded against her, a storm of sweat and chaos, a physical extension of the music that flooded the air.

"Lucy!" She could barely hear the girl, though she was screaming right into her ear. Her name was Amanda. A "single-serving friend," Lucy called them, ever since she'd watched some Muggle film called _Fight Club_. To her, a single-serving friend was any girl she met, partied with for a night, and then discarded at 3 am when she went home, never to think about again. "That guy over there is _totally_ eyeing you!"

Decked out in Muggle attire—white washed jeans and a low cut, backless periwinkle top—the idea wasn't remotely inconceivable. Lucy's gaze followed Amanda's frantic, drunken gestures to a cute redhead near the bar. Her heart sunk. "Fuck."

Their eyes made contact. Palpable. And Lucy was heading for the exit, Amanda shouting inaudibly after her. She flew through the door, the chill of the night smacking into her after the raucous heat of the club.

The door crashed closed, and then back open.

Lucy's jaw clenched. "Save it, Uncle George."

"Luce... your parents are worried sick."

"I said _save it_."

Her Uncle grabbed her shoulder and turned her around to face him. "Look, I didn't tell anyone where you were, but—"

"But you will?" she spat.

His expression darkened. "What am I supposed to do? After you just ran out like that today?"

It had been a rough day in the Percy Weasley household.

Lucy sparked a smoke and leaned back against the cool brick of the building. Her eyes fell shut. She was almost glad he was there. Lucy and her uncle had been close for as long as she could remember. She wasn't exactly a prankster or anything, but they'd always just clicked really well. She told him everything; had never let anyone else so far into her life, and he could read her completely effortlessly. And after her day, she needed him more than anything else-even more than dancing and drinking and smoking.

"I don't know, Uncle George," she sighed. "I just... I don't know." The smoke felt good, easing into her lungs. "Everything is so fucked up right now."

George sighed back. "Yeah. I know." He hesitated. "You know they love you just as much as they love Molly, right?"

Lucy scoffed. "Yeah. Right. Super smart, super accomplished, super perfect Molly. Versus me. Fuck-Up-Lucy."

"No one sees it that way."

"They've always seen it that way. Molly is everything they always were. And I'm—"

"Not."

Lucy took another long drag on her smoke. "You should have heard them this morning, arguing over who Molly should live with when dad moves out. '_Molly would be far better placed with someone high in the Ministry if she wants to have any hope of success, Penelope. I have connections. I can keep her head on straight.' 'Are you suggesting I _can't, _Percy? Because let me tell you_—'_ 'Just look at Lucy! We can't let Molly_—_' 'Molly is a good, responsible kid, she'd never_—_'" _She pushed back the hurt the words had kindled and dragged up her anger._ "_Fuck that. They don't care who I end up with? They think I'm a lost cause? Well, if all they want is Molly, they can fucking well have her."

George frowned. "They really said all that?"

Lucy shrugged. "They didn't realize I was listening."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

Several beats of silence passed. "Luce, you know your dad and I have never seen eye-to-eye—" Lucy snorted. "—and I really don't want to interfere, but I think we should go talk to him."

Fight flared up in her. "Yeah. You know what, that's a spectacular idea. Let's—"

"Tomorrow. When you're sober."

Lucy pouted. "You ruin all my fun."

"Said no one to George Weasley. Ever."

Lucy laughed softly.

"C'mon, Luce. I'll owl your dad and you can spend the night."

xXx

The next morning dawned painfully, nauseously bright.

"Rise and shine, princess."

If it hadn't been for the coffee in his hand, her favourite uncle would have been in for a world of hurt. Also, the fact that he'd anticipated this and stolen her wand.

"Give it back," she mumbled, clutching the coffee with reverence.

"You can have it when you're less grumpy. Now drink up. Your parents are expecting us in an hour."

Lucy groaned, but was at the door and ready to go with time to spare.

"You don't seem very nervous."

"I'm not. Whatever you think is going to happen here, you're wrong," she said. "You can say what you like to my father. He's still going to see me in exactly the same way."

George shrugged. "I guess we'll see."

They flooed into the living room of Lucy's childhood home and wandered into a pristine kitchen that would have satisfied even Petunia Dursley's sensibilities-aside from the obvious touches of magic, of course. A rag washed away breakfast crumbs from the kitchen table while a slender woman directed the washing up of the breakfast dishes with the occasional absent-minded flick of her wand.

"Percy, they're here," she called.

Her father emerged, presumably from his study, some moments later. "Good. Right on time. I've a meeting with the Minister in an hour."

They didn't even pretend to be outraged any more; Lucy's "misbehaviour" had become a matter of routine. Her nicotine craving doubled. George frowned.

"Lucy, I think it'd be best if I spoke with your parents a while first, if that's alright."

"Suits me just fine. Shout when you need me."

She didn't wait around to see if her parents were going to protest, and instead made a beeline for the back patio where she knocked out a smoke and slipped it between her lips.

"You _do_ know that smoking is bad for you, right? I mean, you're basically slowly killing yourself right now."

Tension settled in Lucy's shoulders. The sort that only ever appeared when her older sister was around. "Sure wish it'd hurry up then."

Usually Molly would snort derisively at this point and then walk away. For some reason she hesitated at the door instead. "... Sometimes, when you say things like that, I just can't decide whether maybe you actually mean them."

Lucy glanced back at her sister. She looked honestly concerned, and the thought caught her off guard. Since when did Molly pay any attention to the world beyond her grades and her future?

"I know you hate it here," Molly went on, "I know you don't care about school or the future or about much of anything besides having fun, but… Sometimes I'm just not sure how far that goes."

"I don't want to _die_, Moll," Lucy sighed. "I love being alive. I love breathing it all in. I love feeling life in my veins." She eyed her carefully, not wanting to ruin the moment they seemed to be having, but not sure how to deal with it either. "I'm not happy here, no. But that doesn't mean I'm never happy."

Somehow Molly seemed disposed to listen, rather than judge, and she nodded quietly, thinking over what she'd said. "I'm sometimes a little jealous, you know?"

Lucy choked on the sentiment, coughing hard as smoke burned down her throat. "Bullshit."

Molly smiled her quiet smile. "No, honestly. You seem so… _free_ sometimes."

"You love your chains," Lucy said, taking a seat on the top step. "You love your books and your dreams. You love being first in your class, being respected and admired even by teachers."

Hesitantly, Molly took a seat beside her. "I do. All of those things are important to me. But sometimes I just wish I could be you for a day. Sometimes I wish I could just take a break. Go to a party, have a few drinks," she wrinkled her nose, "maybe not _smoke_, but, you know, _relax_."

A long moment of silence passed as Lucy tried to wrap her mind around the idea. _Molly_ of all damned people had some inner wild child begging to be let out-even if only occasionally? Lucy took another drag of her cigarette. Stranger things… "So why don't you?" she asked, finally.

Molly's lips took on an ironic little twist. "The higher you climb, the further you have to fall. I can never be anything different and still keep the things that are important to me, Lucy. Just like you couldn't keep up your bad girl image if you started getting good grades."

Lucy stared at her seriously. "I'll never tell."

"I—What?"

"Come to a Muggle club with me," she said, the idea growing more and more brightly in her mind. "No one would ever have to know but you and me."

Her sister sputtered for a moment, and Lucy was torn between the bitter sentiment that the idea was too good to work out, and excitement at the idea itself. "C'mon, Molly. We'll be careful, have some fun. Just let loose, have a couple of drinks, dance. Harmless fun. I promise."

"I dunno… What if Mum and Dad—"

"Pulled their arses out of their divorce long enough to realize you actually went out for once in your life?"

"I won't lie to them."

Lucy huffed. "Whatever. So don't. Tell them the truth. You're of age. You graduated and everything. You have a good job waiting for you at the Ministry. You've done everything they've wanted every moment of your life. _Tell_ them, or don't tell them, but either way just _do_ it."

"Luce?" George called from the living room. "Come on in here for a minute, will you?"

"One sec!" She turned back to Molly who looked conflicted, but converted. "Just think about it."

She dragged her feet on her way back to the living room, but somehow ended up there soon enough, regardless. The tone of the room was somber. "Merlin, who died?"

Her mother frowned disapprovingly, but it was her father who spoke, tactfully ignoring her question. "Your Uncle George thinks it would be best if you stayed with him for a while." Lucy's heart skipped a beat and she could feel the shock drop over her face. "Your mother and I are far from convinced," her father continued quickly.

"But we just don't know what to do with you any more, Lucy," her mother said quietly. "And as much as we hate to admit it, we've failed you somehow. Your uncle thinks that maybe what you need is some time away—"

"If you agree, Luce," George cut in. "No one's making the decision for you."

Most of her parents' words had washed right through her. All except for that first sentence. "You really want me to stay with you?"

He crossed the room and pulled her into a hug. "Love, I'd like nothing better."

"And Aunt Angelina… she's okay with it too?"

He chuckled softly. "Course she is. We've spoken about it a few times, but more in-depth this morning before she left for work. You're more than welcome in our home, Lucy. For as long as you'd like to stay."

Her heart felt warmer than it ever had. "And you two… you're going to let me? You're going to let me stay with _Uncle George_?"

She felt a pang of guilt at her parents' expressions. She didn't want to hurt them. She just wanted to _belong_, and the fact was, she didn't belong under Percy Weasley's roof. Uncle George understood her better than anyone, and Aunt Angelina was fun and laid back. The idea of living with them was like a dream come true.

"You know that I love you guys," she said quietly. "But I want this. I'll visit, and maybe Uncle George is right. Maybe some time apart will help with things."

Her father nodded solemnly. "We've agreed, on a trial basis, to let you stay with George. But let me tell you, Lucy Weasley, if things get—"

George shot a pointed stare that silenced him. "You should go pack some things, while we finish up our chat about logistics, aye?"

The cloud that had flitted across her briefly at her father's words cleared immediately. "Meet you in the living room," she grinned, before dancing out of the kitchen.

Molly was waiting for her at the stairs to their rooms. "So you're leaving?"

"Looks that way." She eyed her sister carefully. "You'll have to send me an owl when you finally talk yourself into that club."

Instead of protesting, Molly's face split into a grin. "I guess I will, won't I?"

Lucy grinned back. "See you soon then?"

"Soon," Molly echoed.

Lucy skipped up the stairs. Life was definitely looking up.


	8. Slings and Arrows

Holyhead Harpies' Beater 2 Submission for QLFC

Play: Hamlet

Prompts:

2.(word) deceit

6.(word) feather

9.(quote) 'Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side' - BBC Sherlock

* * *

**Scene 1**

_This wedding is wrong._ The thought circled in Lucius' head as he stood, best man, at his uncle and mother's wedding. _Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._ It felt as though his father had died only yesterday, as though Lucius might open his casket and find his body still cooling. Perhaps he was just mourning improperly—everyone else seemed to have moved on; his mother certainly had—but in the months that had passed since his father's death, he hadn't so much as cried. Not that Lucius was much of a crier; his father had never approved of the behaviour, and his father's approval had always been everything to Lucius.

_Father certainly wouldn't approve of this_, he thought dully. He didn't have space in his heart for emotion. Maybe that made him the perfect Slytherin, but he felt like all it really made him was broken. He wasn't angry. He wasn't sad. He wasn't grieving. He wasn't _anything_. And it was killing him.

He watched as his uncle and mother kissed politely to polite applause and wondered how many other people disapproved of the fiasco. At fifteen years old, it would have been entirely improper for him to say anything about it, but why hadn't anyone _else_?

"Come, Lucius, dear," his mother said in a curt but quiet voice as she started back down the aisle, arm-in-arm with her new husband. He wondered, with a flicker of Gryffindor impetuousness, how she'd react if he started referring to her as "Aunt Camille."

"What are you smirking about, boy?" his uncle said with a frown.

Lucius straightened reflexively at the tone. His father had had the same one. "Nothing, sir." He carefully kept the scorn from his tone and expression.

His uncle eyed him for a long moment then smirked himself. "Probably just excited for the reception, eh, boy? Be sure not to get into _too_ much trouble."

"Of course, sir."

The reception itself was a cloying affair, and as soon as the toasts had finished, Lucius escaped to the gardens. The sun was just setting over the tallest of the garden's yew trees. The door shut behind him and the noise was cut off, leaving him alone outside in the evening's twilight silence. He heaved a sigh of relief and slipped a muggle cigarette between his lips. With his father gone, the minor rebellion of it seemed insignificant—there was no one's approval to seek any longer.

Lucius took a long, deep drag, listening to the soft sizzle as the burn reached further up the cigarette paper. He felt instantly more at ease. The party went on without him, and no one came searching, so he sat in the cooling air and watched the sun set. He had fully relaxed by the time the last ray of light slipped beneath the horizon, his eyes shut against the faint noise of the party-goers within.

"Lucius, we must speak."

The voice… was impossible. Lucius' eyes flew open and he jerked to his feet, glaring into the darkness for the source of the trick. "Who's there?"

The voice ignored his question. "Come closer."

In any other situation, Lucius would have refused, but to hear your dead father's voice from the darkness… He had to know. Hesitantly, Lucius edged away from the terrace and into the trees, his heart pounding in his chest. A short ways beyond the treeline, he drew up short, alarm pulsing through him, as a ghostly form flared before him—one that bore his father's face and countenance.

Lucius' mind raced.

"It's good to see you, my son. It has been far too long that I've been tied to this earth without recourse. I need your help."

Lucius opened his mouth, but the figure raised its hand for silence.

"You want to know the whys and the hows, as any intelligent boy would, and there is much I cannot say and do not know. But this I will tell you: my soul is bound to this existence until my revenge has been wrought—I am trapped, and it is up to you to release me."

If thoughts chased themselves through Lucius' mind, he was unable to catch one long enough to examine it. He stared blankly. Could this really be his father, floating there before him? A specter in the night, bound to the earth by no will of his own? Such things were the stuff of fairy tales.

"Come, boy. Pull yourself together. There are things we must discuss; things that you must know." The ghost floated a little closer, settled his hand on Lucius' shoulder, and Lucius swore he could feel, beneath the icy coldness that splashed over his skin, the faintest hint of touch, like a feather ghosting across his shoulder. "The first of these is my murder," the ghost continued. "The second is what you must do about it.

**Scene 2**

Only a week later, Lucius was on the train to Hogwarts for his Fifth year. He sought solitude once more, in an empty car towards the back of the train. For the past week he'd spent all his time alone, sinking into his own confused thoughts, or else concocting half-arsed schemes he wasn't sure he could follow through on. His mother was worried about him, about the way he'd withdrawn, about the strange anger that suddenly lurked beneath the silence of his countenance. Lucius had offered her no words of comfort. Let her worry. Let her fret. Her deceit, her treachery, had earned her far worse.

The compartment door slid open. "Am I intruding?"

Lucius glanced up at Severus, a year behind him, but his best friend regardless. He thought about sending him away, but instead shook his head. "Not at all."

"Your mother sent me a letter," the dark-haired boy said after taking a seat. "She's worried about your sanity." He smirked. "I contemplated telling her it was long gone, but then decided it would be a touch inappropriate."

When Lucius' expression only darkened, Severus frowned. "Tell me."

Helplessness, an extraordinarily unfamiliar feeling for Lucius, swept over him. "I can't."

Dark eyes met his. "Trust me."

Lucius remembered those words, remembered a moment when their situations had been reversed, when he'd finally found out what haunted his friend's dark eyes, found out the source of Severus' bumps and bruises. He couldn't deny the request in those words. And so he began to explain about the ghost he'd decided really was his father. About the terrible conversation that had ensued.

"_Murdered_? I thought you said he died of dragon pox?"

Lucius swallowed. "It was poison. My uncle conspired to kill my father." He heard no emotion in his voice. There wasn't any in his heart either. He felt numb. Too overwhelmed by emotion to feel anything at all. Lucius wasn't sure it wasn't preferable, regardless. As Severus had once told him, sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side—and he couldn't afford to be on the losing side this time, not with his father's very soul on the line.

"_To what end_?"

"Money, power, prestige. My uncle gains all that came with my father's position in the family. All that would otherwise have come to me."

"And your mother?"

Lucius felt a momentary urge to curse something, and then the defences around his heart quenched the feeling. "I'm not sure what motivates her."

There was a long moment of silence. "And your father needs revenge…"

"My uncle," Lucius said. "I'm to kill my own uncle."

Severus swiped a hand across his face. "Bloody hell." A pause. "Have you got a plan?"

"No."

"Are you sure you can do this?"

Lucius snorted. "No. No, I'm not."

"You know I'm here for you, Lucius. Whatever you need of me."

Lucius gripped his friend's arm in gratitude and the rest of the trip passed in silence.

**Scene 3**

First term flew by. The last night available to him, Lucius capitulated and signed the sheet indicating he would remain at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays. Severus frowned at him deeply from his seat by the fire.

"You can't put it off forever," he said quietly.

"I can't do it, Sev. Is it right to kill a man cold-bloodedly? And what if he didn't do it? What if it's all just some hoax?"

"You have all the proof you will ever have," Severus replied. "You saw his face when you mentioned the strange suddenness of your father's death. You saw his reaction when you spoke of his fortune in the death. You've done all you can to test the truth of the situation." He paused. "And quite frankly you sound like a _Gryffindor_, all morality and sentimentality. You talk of joining the Dark Lord, and next thing you're tucking your tail between your legs and preaching pacifism and forgiveness—"

"I could _never_ forgive him," Lucius spat.

"Then you must avenge your father as you promised him you would." Severus leaned forward conspiratorially. "Take this."

Lucius took the small vial that was offered. "What is it?"

"It doesn't have a name. I invented it. But it will kill him. A couple of drops in his ear when he sleeps and he'll never awaken. It's new. No one will ever know what happened. Your father will be free from his bonds. You will be free from suspicion. And _I'll_ be free of your sulking and moaning."

Lucius forced a smirk at the quip, but his attention was on the vial… the murder weapon… that rested so innocuously in his palm. Should taking a life be so easy as Severus thought? _Easter_, he told himself. I'll do it at Easter. That night he stashed the mystery potion away in the deepest recesses of his trunk and of his mind, and he turned his thoughts back to academics and social engagements. But each night as the darkness crept across the castle, the vial's existence haunted him just as his father's impatient apparition did.

**Scene 4**

The final night of Easter holidays found Lucius pacing back and forth across his bedroom. He'd made up his mind. He was doing it. It was now or never, and never was not an option, so tonight it would be. He hated himself even as he thought it, but he wouldn't—couldn't—let his father down. He was agitated. Fidgety. Anxious. Scared shitless. But determined.

He cast a disillusionment charm on himself, and another charm to quiet the sound of his footsteps as he crept down the corridor to his uncle and mother's chambers. His heart beat a staccato rhythm, as though his fear were choking it, preventing it from beating properly, but it was his breathing that worried him; he felt as though he could barely breathe, as though his breaths must surely be coming in audible gasps. They were going to give him away, he was sure of it.

He clenched the vial tightly in his fist. He almost hoped it would break in the pressure of his grip. Wished he'd have an excuse to back out. Except he would have no excuse. He would instead have to improvise. And that thought was far more appalling.

The bedroom door creaked as he pushed it open. Lucius froze in the doorway, his heart beating harder than ever, his pulse growing more erratic by the second. No one stirred.

He found his uncle in the dark. Took a deep, steadying breath. Unstoppered the vial. Poured three drops into his uncle's ear, fingers shaking terribly, stomach churning violently.

Then he left. He crept back out the door, slipped outside, and vomited off the second floor terrace. He kneeled a long while on the stone, shaking, crying. His father didn't appear. The sense of brokenness within him only grew, and he realized he'd shattered something within him that would never be able to heal, had lost something he would never get back.

Finally, he sat back on his heels and sparked a cigarette. He pulled the smoke into his lungs and it felt at home there, blackness meeting blackness. He smoked the thing until it was gone, and then he smoked another, and another, and he never felt more or less dead inside, so he kept smoking until the sun came up. His mother's scream jerked him from his chain-smoking stupor. He lifted his gaze from the massacre of cigarette butts surrounding him, and a mad chuckle escaped his lips. A twisted tangle of desperation and crazy. He flicked the rest of his cigarette over the balcony, and he rose to his feet, and he went inside.


	9. Beautiful Mess

QLFC Round 10 - Beater 2 (Interspecies)

Prompts:

5\. (quote) 'Out of the millions and millions of people that inhabit this planet, he is one of the tiny few I can never have.' - Tabitha Suzuma, Forbidden  
15\. (song) 'Thousand Needles' by Lea Michele

_Note:_ I cleared the ghost-as-different-species thing with Emma :)

* * *

Hermione moved through the castle like a ghost. Her energetic presence of her school years had dwindled during the war; all she wanted now was to hide. From everything. And that was why she'd taken the job of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Stupid.

It kept her out of the public eye. It kept her away from the pressures of following any of her dreams. It kept her away from Harry and Ron. But it didn't keep her away from her past. Day after day she taught ungrateful students how to cast the spells she'd used day after day to survive the war. Day after day she was assaulted by memories, by ignorance, by stupidity. She understood Severus Snape so much better now, after the war, after the revelation of his secrets, but after teaching first year DADA, she wished she could go up and apologize to him.

Instead, she snuck down to the dungeons some nights. She wandered the halls that she'd once thought were bleak, but now found comfort in. The darkness hid any assailants, certainly, but she was never any less on her guard during the daytime, and the dark felt like a friend, soft and soothing.

She knew from her knowledge of the Muggle world, from her parents' constant concern, that she was suffering from PTSD, from depression. She knew she should be doing something to heal. But for some reason she never did, and instead she proceeded to shut out anyone who offered her any concern.

She slunk around a final corner, then slipped through a carved wooden door and into an atrium that was hidden away in the bowels of the castle. It was no less drab than the rest of the dungeons. No plants, no light. It was damp and chill and dark. Hermione thought of it as her sanctuary, and though the altar reminded her somehow of the Veil in the Department of Mysteries, that only served to make her feel more connected to the realm that had taken so many good people.

"You're Hermione Granger."

Hermione's gaze swung violently toward the source of the sound, her wand suddenly in her hand and pointed toward the shimmering figure that had just floated through a nearby wall. Just a ghost. She forced herself through several calming breaths. The ghost waited politely.

"That's right," she said. "Might I ask who you are?"

A flash of darkness, a defeated smirk.

"Who I was, you mean." He chuckled darkly as Hermione scrambled for a response. "Nevermind. My name is Regulus. Regulus Arcturus Black of the-"

"You're R.A.B.," Hermione breathed in astonishment. "You're Sirius' brother." Her heart clenched, then eased. What might Sirius have given to be here in her place, with the knowledge of what his brother had done, who he'd become-in the end?

Regulus nodded. "What became of my brother? Rumours have brought me no news but Grimmauld is empty and he never visits anyone's graves. He died?"

"At the Ministry. Bella, she-"

"Always did have it out for him," Regulus murmured. "She must have been delirious with joy."

"Well she's bloody delirious twenty-four-seven, isn't she?" Hermione muttered.

Regulus chuckled. "You'll hear no argument from me." His expression turned serious. "I came here tonight to thank you—" He halted. "No, that's arrogant and not what I meant..." His handsome aristocratic face frowned, and Hermione took a moment to admire the high cheekbones and intelligent eyes that decorated his slightly rugged features; he must not have shaved the day he died. The thought was a strange one and she reeled away from it.

"What I mean to say," he said finally, "is that I began something, long ago, before I had any way of knowing the number of Horcruxes or the true extent of Voldemort's evil. I started something I couldn't ever finish." He ran his fingers through his short head of loose curls. "I... you see, I was rushed, and young, emotional-terrified. I botched the spell that chains me to this plain of existence, Hermione. I come and I go but have no control over it."

Hermione eyed him shrewdly. "You wanted to stay here? To warn someone?"

"If ever the right person came along. I never trusted Dumbledore." Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Regulus waved her words away. "Blame, perhaps, my Slytherin experience at Hogwarts, but whatever it was, as long as he was the leader of the Order, I was reluctant to go to them while I was alive." He shrugged. "All this is neither here nor there. The point is that I started something that I couldn't finish, and when I returned to this place to see it done… I was more astounded, relieved, grateful, than I could ever express. What you and your friends did is worthy of admiration, and I wanted very much to have the chance to express that to you."

The sincerity in his eyes sparked with emotion that had been carefully tuned down, but there was still a rawness to it that reminded Hermione of Sirius. She wondered if they'd been close, even as she blushed a thank you.

Days passed in a blur of teaching and grading before Hermione realized she'd missed an opportunity. Nearly Headless Nick had once told Harry he'd escaped death and therefore knew nothing about it, but Regulus had left this side of existence, he must know what lay on the other side. The thought tortured her for months until finally she happened upon him again, once more in the Atrium.

A wry smile played across his lips at her questions. "I'm sorry to disappoint so voracious a curiosity, Hermione, but I don't think I know any more about death than does your friend, Nick. I may not always be here… but I'm not ever any place else either."

She proceeded to grill him for ages about exactly what that meant, but when she realized the time some hours later, they'd long since been talking about other things. "I really have to get to sleep. Seventh years in the morning, you know. Really keep you on your toes." She hesitated. "Will you be around the castle much?"

A tangible warmth entered Regulus' cold and insubstantial features. "If it means more late night conversations with the present company, I'm sure I could somehow fit it into my busy schedule."

Hermione smiled. "I'm glad. It's nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who…"

"Feels like an equal?"

"Yes, exactly."

"The feeling is mutual, Miss Granger. See you tomorrow night?"

A feeling fluttered around in her chest. Hermione told herself she was flattered. "Tomorrow night then. Goodnight, Regulus."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

And that was how it started.

Months later Hermione lay in bed, her eyes fixed on the bleak darkness of the space between her and the ceiling. _If only I'd known, from the very beginning, what it all would become… would I have changed anything about it?_ It was hardly the first time she'd wondered it, but it was only recently that she'd let herself truly embrace her situation. She was in love with him. She was in love with a _ghost_. With a boy who had been a Death Eater. With a man who had lived and died before she'd been born. A memory. Someone she could never touch, never kiss, never fall into tangled-sheeted-bliss with; someone who could never comfort her with a hug, or bring her breakfast in bed.

And for some insane reason, none of that seemed to matter. For some insane reason, her answer to her own question could only ever be a resolute _no_—she wouldn't change a minute of it for all the world. She loved every minute that she had ever spent with him. She loved his sincerity, his intelligence, his wry sense of humour. She loved their conversations—about everything from family, to books, to political and social issues. She loved how she saw him as her equal in every way, how she respected him so completely. She loved the way he cared for her, quietly, tenderly. She loved Regulus Black, and she did so with all of her heart and her mind.

He'd been gone again, for a while now. He never stayed long. A few days at most, and then he'd be torn from her little piece of reality to float in limbo, sometimes for a week, sometimes for longer, but always for longer than he was around. This time had been harder than all the times before. Her heart pained at the distance, and every night she went down to the atrium with tremors in her veins. He hadn't been there this evening either. Thirteen days. She was almost relieved, in a way, because it meant another day to wait before having to find a way to tell him she was in love with him, and she was far too much a Gryffindor to shy away from doing so once he turned up.

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed. It was going to be another long night.

"Languishing without me again?" asked a voice, soft, on icy breath beside her ear.

Hermione jolted up in bed. "You're back!" A warm glow warred with the butterflies for supremacy within her chest. His answering smile was as good as kiss to her. She couldn't believe he was in her room, couldn't believe how happy she was to see him. Couldn't believe there was any way she might never have met him when everything fell into place as soon as he appeared.

"I am. You didn't miss me too much, did you?"

She'd never be quite certain how it happened, or why, but somehow her senses left her altogether. She opened her mouth to say "not for an instant," she swore, but instead her voice escaped, soft, barely a whisper, taking the words "I love you" with it instead.

Regulus stared at her. "Did you just—" he sputtered. For an insane moment Hermione almost burst out laughing at the expression on his face, and then the reality of the moment slapped her in _her_ face and she was immediately serious again.

"I did. Regulus, I love you," she said, leaning in closer, forcing herself to make eye contact despite her incredible desire to stare at the floor instead. "I love you. Terribly. Beautifully."

Still Regulus stared. Hermione shifted uncomfortably on the bed, searching for an exit strategy.

"I didn't think you'd say it," he said at last.

Hermione jerked her thoughts away from a particularly lame scheme involving a sudden dire need to head to the loo. "What?"

"I didn't think you'd let yourself admit it." Hermione drew herself up, prepared to fully express her indignation, but Regulus shook his head. "I should have known better, my Gryffindor. But in some ways you are a Ravenclaw, and in others even a Slytherin, and falling in love with a—with me… that's illogical beyond account, Hermione. That's reckless and messy and—"

"I love it."

Regulus' mouth shut and silence fell over them.

Hermione fiddled with the bedsheets. _He didn't said it back_. The thought echoed in her mind over and over for several long moments before she managed to shrug it off.

"I've been working on a spell," she said finally, the words coming in a rush. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing, crafting spells. It's a bit like potions, and it takes more than just cleverness and intelligence; it's art, and I've never been a particularly creative person. But from a scientific standpoint… I think it might work, and I— I'd really like to try it."

Regulus seemed happy to latch onto the topic change. "What does it do?"

"It—" Hermione broke off with a blush. "Just let me show you?"

He nodded, and Hermione whispered the words she'd developed for the spell, her eyes shut for the emotional piece of the spell, her wand waving a carefully calculated pattern in the air. When she opened them, nothing in her surroundings had changed, and Regulus was trying very hard not to look pitying.

Hermione rolled her eyes and crooked a finger in his direction to beckon him closer. His eyebrow cocked inquisitively, but she ignored him, beckoning more insistently. Slowly, Regulus floated closer, and closer, at Hermione's insistence, until finally he was within reach.

Hermione hesitated, her breath caught somewhere amongst those damned butterflies, then, almost reluctantly, she reached her hand out towards him.

Her fingers trembled in the air between them. Regulus' eyes widened as he realized what she was doing.

"Hermione it's not possible," he breathed, his voice dense with sadness. "You just _can't_—"

And then she was doing it. She was _touching_ him. He was like ice, and somehow not as _there_ as a human would be (though should couldn't quite suss out what was different), but it was _him_. His skin touching hers. Her fingers lacing through his.

She grinned up at him, as he stared, stunned, at their hands, intertwined like she'd known they were meant to be. She brought his hand closer and gently brushed her lips across his pale, silvered skin. "I love you."

"Hermione, what did you just _do_?"

She smiled—she couldn't help it; for all she knew she'd keep on smiling till the day she died. "You're not corporeal," she said softly. "Not really. You can't pick up books or anything, can't touch anyone else. The spell only works on you and me… the object and the caster. And I suppose it'll probably have to be renewed regularly, but I'm not certain—"

His lips muffled hers and the words fled her mind. She shivered, and not just from the cold, though the kiss was all clumsy desperation.

He pulled away and tugged her down onto the bed, pulling her close. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

Hermione grinned and snuggled into him, pulling the covers tightly around her. She thought she had a pretty good idea.

_Out of the millions and millions of people that inhabit this planet, he is one of the tiny few I can never have_, she'd thought to herself, time and time again, trying to fight off her feelings. But it wasn't true. Sure, he was always going to be in shades of grey. There were always going to be times when he'd be gone… might even be a time when he just never came back. It was going to hurt, a thousand needles in her heart, when he was gone and she needed him. But she wasn't going to run from it, wasn't going to break away. Whatever came next, Hermione Granger was going to see this one through.

"I love you too, Hermione."

Even if it was all just one big, beautiful mess.


	10. On Top of the World

Beater 2, Holyhead Harpies :)

Prompts:

"No right, no wrong, no rules for me, I'm free."

1 (word) delicate

12 (quote) 'Yesterday is not ours to recover, but tomorrow is ours to win or lose' ~ Lyndon B. Johnson

14 (creature) Dementor

* * *

Albus had graduated. The sun beat down on the back of his neck, pressing sweat from his pores in the most uncomfortable of ways. His discomfort was the last thing on his mind.

Aberforth stood at his side. A distance between them that echoed with resentment. A distance Albus wasn't sure he could ever close.

Ariana was at home. Alone. She filled Albus' mind: would she stay docile till they returned? If only the official would speed things along. She filled Aberforth's mind: what would happen to her now that their mother had died? Would she be okay? Who would care for her?

Their mother was lowered into the ground. Symbolic earth spread over her resting place. Quiet tears slipped down Albus', Aberforth's cheeks—the only thing they'd been united in in years, the only thing they'd be united in for decades.

She was gone.

And Ariana was now Albus' responsibility. Aberforth didn't believe he could hack it. Albus didn't want to. He was a genius. Destined for greatness. Prepared for a tour of the world; ready to learn everything it had to offer, ready to surpass it in every way possible. He was a wizard, top student at Hogwarts. There was nothing he couldn't do. Except abandon his family. Except leave Ariana to strangers. So he stayed. He left his mother's funeral, he took Ariana in his arms, and—filled with resentment—he promised her his devotion, his past, present, and future. He promised her everything. And he hated her for it, even as he loved her for everything else.

"You can't resent her forever."

Albus looked up from his book, peered at Ariana who played nearby in the garden. "Resent her for what?"

Aberforth snorted. He'd always seen Ariana as his. _He's jealous_, Albus thought. _But I'd pass her to him in a split second if he didn't still have Hogwarts to finish._ "Can't you see that she's beautiful? That she's perfect? That she's worth protecting?"

Albus had nothing to say to that. Of course he saw all those things. He just couldn't, for the life of him—or Ariana—put aside the sense that he was meant for something better, bigger, than caring for his shattered baby sister. How could this possibly be his fate?

The summer months passed more quickly than Albus could account for. One moment they were laying his mother to rest, the next he and Ariana were wishing Aberforth a good final year at Hogwarts. That evening, after watching Aberforth depart on a train bound for his future, Albus allowed himself to sit before a map once more. Two more years. Two more years and then he'd be free. Aberforth, who felt he belonged to Ariana anyway, would be graduated. Would be done Hogwarts and ready to take on their sister as Albus had tried to. Months. Only months more.

September came and finally Albus was left alone with the sister he barely knew, the sister he never understood. She was broken as he had never been. Broken as they golden boy of Hogwarts could never possibly comprehend. And the weeks passed slowly. Trapped.

And then _he_ was there. With his tangled mess of dirty blonde curls. With his radical plans for the future, for the world. With his wicked wit and his paralleled sense of humour. Gellert was everything Albus might ever have hoped for. Smart. Funny. Passionate. Rebellious. Ready to leave his mark on the world. His laugh was infectious. His smile. His smirk. His desire. Albus was powerless against his call. Powerless to resist his reason. And when he argued that Muggles were the beginning and end of all the problems in the Wizarding World, that Muggles needed proper guidance, proper control, Albus was on board before he could even process the meaning of the words. Charisma. Wit. Attractiveness. Gellert Grindelwald had it all. And Albus loved him immediately.

When Gellert appeared, Albus' reason went to shit. Nothing else mattered. Not his own well-being, not Gellert's, not Ariana's. For the greater good. It became their slogan. Their mantra. And Albus believed in it just as strongly as did his lover. They fell asleep each night with the sentiment on their lips, indelibly marked upon their hearts. It never faded. Never tarnished.

Spring arrived and their love had only grown. Their convictions only strengthened.

"So let us journey," Gellert said one morning, when Albus expressed his resentment for his sister, at being trapped in one place when he might be learning about the world. "Let us take Ariana with us."

Albus said nothing. Nothing. Because he knew there wasn't any hope in such a thing. Knew there was no hope in hoping. No point. Only emptiness would answer.

His second summer as Ariana's guardian passed much more quickly as Gellert reminded his it was the Muggles' fault, not Aberforth. As an idea took hold in his mind, in the mind of his lover. They could save the world from itself. Save humanity from its own blunders.

The idea appealed to Albus. He would save the world from itself. He'd be remembered—for something incredible, for saving the Wizarding World from the Muggles; for saving the Muggles from themselves.

A happy dream.

And then summer strikes.

"You're bloody _insane_!" Aberforth accuses. There's fury in his voice. "Gellert is insane!" Any flicker of doubt, of acquiescence, is immediately eradicated, and Albus opens his mouth to protest, but Aberforth isn't done. "It's been two months, Albus, and already he owns you. Mind, heart, body, and soul. The "greater good" is a bloody joke. What's a greater good than your own sister? And now you think… what? That would should just drag her off across the continent as your preach your insanity to others?" The sneer fades from Aberforth's face to be replaced by genuine concern, by love. "She fragile, Albus, delicate, a flower to be cherished and cared for, not a piece of luggage; I won't let you haul her off like rubbish, won't let you drag her along on you genocide mission."

Albus hesitated. "We'll sedate her, Ab," he whispered, knowing it was insufficient, selfish, cruel. "She won't know. She won't be in much danger. She'll be half-asleep the whole—"

"Like hell you will," his brother hissed. "Is that Gellert's answer to everything? 'If it's complicated, get rid of it'? Force it to submit, or eradicate it?" Aberforth's blue eyes flashed with hatred. "You and your boyfriend are sick, Albus. Broken. You _disgust me._"

Albus stared at his brother, not sure what to say, lost in a sea of uncertainty—about everything. And then Aberforth was turning on Gellert, his wand drawn. Or had Gellert drawn first? Albus couldn't say. Never could. It was all such a blur…

Albus is defending them both. Or is he just defending Gellert? He won't ever remember. Isn't even certain in the moment. He only knows that somehow spells are flying from his wand, are flashing through the air. Colours. Sounds. Chaos. Ariana is screaming. The discord crushing her ability to cope. Normally Aberforth would run to her, would calm her, but not today. Today Aberforth is distracted by something bigger, and if Albus were capable of rational thought, that thought would be profound.

"_Crucio_!"

Albus freezes. Time itself freezes.

A blur of action. A rise of the tide. Everything happens all at once, and no one can account for it all. The Crucio falls. Curses fly. One strikes Albus and his anger, already at the precipice, flares, ignites, and suddenly he's throwing curses himself.

A blur.

And then somehow, impossibly, Ariana is there. A flash of colour, of panic. She's falling. Impossibly there. Impossibly not. Time stands still. The curses stop, in abrupt tandem. One split second falls to an interminable end. And then Aberforth is rushing forward, his anguish bursting out around him, a haunting, chilling scream that isn't quite human, but is somehow still far too heartbreaking to be attributed to a beast. (Though hasn't Albus been arguing that they're one in the same. That Muggles, however human, are mere beasts to be tamed?)

Gellert appears at his side. A voice of reason. A voice of insanity. "We have to go. Now. Before he summons the Aurors." His voice is urgent. Desperate. Calming. "Come with me, Albus." A searing kiss, fingers fisted through hair. But Albus is in shock, too numb to be touched by Gellert's passion. Too astounded not to stare at his sister's fallen body.

"What have we done?" he whispers.

"Yesterday is not ours to recover," Gellert whispers back, "but tomorrow is ours to win or lose." A gentle touch. A whispered caress. "We have so much to do, to accomplish. Don't give up now, Albus. Don't give up on us, on the Greater Good."

Albus hesitates. He wants to go. He wants to stay.

"There's no right, no wrong. You know this. We're free, Albus. Come with me, and we'll be free, forever. Choose freedom. Choose me. Choose the Greater Good, and forget this mundane nonsense."

Albus stares at his friend, his lover, as though he's never seen him before. And maybe he hasn't. Maybe he's been staring at someone imagined, at someone he _wanted_ to see. But even as he sees the truth, sees a boy tortured with feverish passion, with desperation, emptiness, he also sees tender touches, lighthearted laughter, kinship of mind and soul, of heart. Which reality is real?

"You!" Aberforth roars suddenly, his gaze jerking from his sister's empty form. Salty tracks are crystalizing on his cheeks. "You're going to pay for this, Albus." His arm flies into the air, summons Aurors, Dementors.

"Come with me Albus," Gellert hisses more urgently. And there's love in his eyes, genuine love, but also fear. Still Albus hesitates.

"Ab, it was… it was an accident. We—"

"Now, Albus!" Gellert screams.

A popping sound. Aurors appear. A Dementor, immediately sucking the hope from their very souls. Gellert's expression is a mask of torment… and then he's gone.

Albus stares at the empty space long enough that Aberforth is deep in conversation with Aurors when he turns, a chill first clamed around his heart, despair filling his very soul. It's the Dementor, he knows that, but it seems so very fitting just the same, that he should feel such emptiness in Gellert's absence.

"It was Gellert Grindelwald," Aberforth says. His gaze meets Albus' and there's vengeance there. No apology. Only disgust, only hate, mingled with the agony, the incredible sadness. It mingles with the promise: _You'll pay_. Gellert would never return. Aberforth's retribution would be successful. Albus felt his heart shatter.

But he's numb. And so cold. And there's a roar in his head—a thousand voices screaming, a thousand pleas he can't answer. They grow louder and louder, and the only thought in Albus' head as he collapses is errant, is insignificant. Sister dead. Lover gone. Brother estranged. And all he can this is how much he bloody well hates Dementors, as they conjure every desperate memory he possesses—a lifetime's worth, in one so young. Darkness takes him and in it he finds solitude. Until he wakes.


	11. That Perfect Girl

Posted for Anjali. Beater 3 of the Harpies.

"That perfect girl is gone"

3 (scene) a dance between two characters

5 (picture) smashed wine glass

15 (word) necklace

* * *

The glass fell to the floor. An omen. A promise. You shouldn't cry over spilled milk, Astoria reminded herself, but this was something different. This was her wedding night. This was the bride's glass. The groom's dismay. The groom's family's united frown.

The ring on her finger weighed more heavily than ever. And her only excuse for the broken glass was her shaking fingers. Her nerves. Her reluctance to marry this perfect man.

Draco frowned, too.

Astoria ignored it. Smiled her dazzling smile, giggled self-deprecatingly. A subtle signal to the band had them calling for the first dance. Husband and wife. Husband and wife. Her throat closed off at the thought, her chest compressed, pushing the air forcibly from her lungs, and still she rose with composure, with pureblood elegance, from her seat before the congregation, and took Draco's hand, letting him lead her gracefully to the dance floor.

The dance goes smoothly. An empty closeness portrayed. So much faking. So many lies. But only on her part. Draco loves her. Astoria loves only who he wants to be, who she wishes he was, who he was, once upon a time. Now he's nothing, and the thought of living with nothing for all of eternity shatters Astoria's heart.

She can't remember the last time he laughed.

She can't remember the last time she smiled.

Fake. Fake. Fake. Fake. Fake.

The word echoes through her mind as she swirls and twirls across the dance floor.

Other couples join in, and she sees in their faces the envy, the jealousy. They want what she has and she can't, for the life of her, decide why. Is it the necklace around her neck? An enormous, gaudy emerald, proclaiming, without words, the Slytherin supremacy her husband's family pretends claim to. Is it the ring on her finger? A promise of riches, of love, of eternity. The attention? Expectations, desires, hopes, dreams… all things Astoria wants to flee, all things Astoria scorns.

Inside, everything screams. She smiles and she dances. She waves to friends, giggles with family, acknowledges harmless flirtation, graciously accepts wishes for her wellbeing and that of her newly-wed husband. But beneath the surface, everything rebels, wrenches against the chains that tie her to this life, and now to this man, this puppet.

They dance through the evening. Then comes the consummation, a routine by now, an empty series of actions Astoria can numb herself to, actions that no longer bring her pleasure or pride. Actions that once would have set her atop the world in her eyes. Instead all she can think is that Parkinson dodged a real curse when she was engaged to Nott. And that's saying a lot.

Astoria stares at the ceiling until it's over. Ignores Draco's moans and groans, rolls out from under him when he finishes, mechanically brushes her fingers over his skin until his snores filter through the air.

She remembers who she used to be. Academically successful. A socialite. Sassy. Bright. A light in every darkness. Everyone's best friend, confidante. Not a gossip. Not a user. Genuine, or as genuine as a Slytherin can be. She was _loved_. She was _important_.

Now she's nothing. Nothing but a Malfoy, confined to a manor that will never be big enough. Watched by a posse of house elfs, by her mother in law, by her own husband.

Is this her life? Is this all she's ever going to be? Is that perfect girl, witty and smart and fun, really gone? Is this Astoria?

She slips from the bed. Crosses to the window. Draws back the blinds.

The gardens are dark. Shadows flit across the moon, clouds casting darkness over the world. (And to what end? To remind them that the darkness carries monsters? Maybe the Muggles don't realize. Maybe they only fear weaspons and humans.

Astoria fears only herself. Herself and the cage she's created and pretended is life, is a future. She'd rather die. Rather die than face the life she's created for herself, rather than face an endless life with men who served Voldemort.

A hard kick within her stomach. Resentment. The baby is growing inside her. She's only just told Draco. Only just told anyone. They're all so excited. Her relationship is saved. Empty echoes in an empty pavilion. A place of worship long since vacated.

Draco is over the mood. He has a list of names. A list of birthdates and meanings. Lists and lists. Hopes upon hopes. Dreams and obligations. A boy to carry on the name.

Astoria hopes it's a girl. Hopes it just to spite him. Hopes it for herself.

And all she wants, still, is to run.

She peers out the window for a long time. She wonders, for just as long, whether she might escape into the gardens, out the back gate, into the wilderness, without notice. She could go anywhere, with only a small amount of the Malfoy fortune, and surely they'd never care enough to find her, to track her down…

Astoria turns from the window, from the temptation, as she's done so many times before. She crosses the room. She eyes her husband, charmed as he is by recent events. Cloud nine. Heaven. It's all in his eyes. All written on a face she doesn't understand. A face she detests. She presses close into his arms and lets her lids fall shut. Lets herself imagine a place that isn't here.

That perfect girl, that perfect life, it's gone. And it's time to life in reality. It's time to let go. It's time to move on. She moves with the music. She falls to pieces as she falls into place. She lets herself go.


	12. A Harley Quinn Romance

Submission for QLFC Round 11, Beater 2.

Crossover chosen: Comic

Prompts:

7.(dialogue) "Who the bloody hell is that?"

12.(quote) 'Laughter is the sun that drives winter from a human face.' - Victor Hugo

* * *

The music was too loud. The room was too dark. There were too many people.

Harry's nerves frayed into a billion strands, instinct sending his awareness onto full alert. He was going to kill Hermione. Assuming he survived the experience.

It was a mixer. A mixer Hermione had forced him into—apparently it was time for him to move on from Ginny. Apparently it was time for him to move on.

The girl in front of him was cute. Brunette, petite, funny. He wasn't interested. He couldn't be. She asked about Voldemort. About being the Chosen One. He felt like an attraction at a freak show, not someone someone might somehow be attracted to.

The buzzer went off. A new girl. A new face he wasn't attracted to. Another face that wasn't anything but a momentary distraction.

And then there she was. Blonde hair, dyed tips—red on one side, black on the other. Her eyes were haunted. Her face was laughter. Contradiction. And still she didn't interest him until she opened her mouth. That rough accent. That quirky laugh. She drew him in immediately.

"What a ride, eh? All these people lookin' for somethin' real specific and thinkin' they'll somehow find it if they just try hard enough."

Harry shrugged. "I guess."

The girl laughed, snapped her gum between her lips. "Name's Harley. Just got out of a rough relationship—if you can call it that—my friend Ivy thinks talking to a bunch of losers desperate for love will somehow help." She laughed again, coiled her hair around her pinky. "I think she's crazy, but verdict on the streets is I'm the crazy one, so may as well give it a shot, eh?"

Harry didn't know what to say. The girl seemed vibrant. A shade of flamboyant pink that made his dark hair and his emerald eyes all shades of grey. "I guess I'm in the same boat."

Laughter again. "It all seems like crap to me. Wanna get out of here?"

Harry stared at her.

"Come on, darlin'. I got a bike waiting outside. We can split like bananas and ice cream. Easy as pie."

He hesitated. Apparently a moment too long, because next thing he knew Harley was grinning a jaw-splitting grin and dragging him out of his seat.

The back alley behind the bar was dark, but her bike gleamed in the Muggle streetlights. Chrome and shining metal. Absently Harry wondered if that's what Sirius' bike had looked like the night that he'd taken him from his parents' shattered home.

"Let's go, hot stuff." Harley climbed onto the bike and looked back at him expectantly.

Harry hesitated.

"Don't wimp out on me, puddin'. The night's on our side. Hop on."

With a certain amount of reckless abandon, Harry obliged, wrapping his arms around her slender waist and holding on for dear life as she threw the bike into gear and jetted off into the blackness of the night. Wind rushed past him. The air stealing his breath and his thoughts. Streetlights faded in his mind and the thrill of the ride consumed him. For once in his life, Harry let go of it all. Let go of the worries, the need for control, the responsibility that came with being the Chosen One. For once in his life, Harry just let the ride take him, instead of taking the ride into his own hands.

And it felt like flying, but better. Because it was all so far out of his own hands that there was no worry, no goal. It felt a little like freedom. It felt a lot like it.

He laughed a laugh that matched Harley's, and their voices filled the air as they ripped through the streets of London.

Somehow, impossibly, the romance took hold. Months passed in a strange sort of bliss where nothing was heavy and everything was just fun. Something totally unfamiliar to Harry. It was like Voldemort didn't matter anymore. Like the ultimate battle between good and evil had never happened. Because for every battle wound Harry had, Harley could match it with one of her own. She didn't even know who Voldemort was, but she had villains of her own, villains Harry had never heard of, and everything felt equal. They'd had weight on their shoulders, had held up their worlds all on their own. They'd fought and they'd lost and they'd won, and in one another's presence their battles became just anecdotes, quirky stories in a compilation that was so much more than just the pain of the fight.

Life became more.

And she was crazy. And he was crazy. And somehow they just fit.

They were curled up on the couch watching some ridiculous American show. It seemed to Harry that it consisted primarily of parents filming their children getting injured, but Harley loved it, so Harry did too, because he loved watching her eyes light up as she laughed.

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "You know," she said, "Someone once said that 'Laughter is the sun that drives winter from a human face' I don't know if that's true, but I sure love to laugh."

Harry looked at her, amused. "Laughter is the what?"

"The sun that drives winter from a human face." Harley smirked up at him. "Does my face look wintery to you?"

Harry reached down, mischievousness in his eyes. His fingers crept up under her shirt, spread gently over her stomach. Harley sighed against his touch, and a smirk pressed across his own lips as he pressed his fingers into her sides, tickling her mercilessly. When finally she pleaded desperately for him to stop, he relented, pressed his lips to her temple and grinned. "No winter that I can see."

Harley giggled girlishly and kissed him, her fingers slipping up into his hair. Harry happily deepened the kiss, his fingers trailing down her side and across her pantline. She sighed against his lips.

Someone banged on the door. "Harley! Are you in there?"

"Shit." Harley pulled away abruptly, her eyes wide.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, a mysterious guilt creeping into her face. "Er. Batman?"

The door flew open to reveal the Dark Knight himself. "Harley. The Joker is out of control. Gotham needs you."

Harley rolled her eyes. "Gotham's done just fine without me this far, sweetness. I think they'll be alright."

Harry watched as the man's eyes darkened. "Don't be like that. You know what he's like. He's tearing Gotham apart, brick by brick. You're the only one who can reason with him, the only one who can get to him without further bloodshed. We need you. I wouldn't be here if we didn't."

Harry reached for Harley's hand, but she pulled away, sadness in her eyes. The haunted look that had finally started to dim from them was back in full force, and he knew, in the deepest vestiges of his heart, that she was already gone. "I have to go," she whispered. "I let him out. This is on me."

"Stay."

A tear slipped down her cheek. "Bye, puddin'. I'll maybe see you 'round."

The hand he'd reached for slipped under the cushion of her couch and emerged with a gun, a steely look overtaking her face. She stood and crossed the room. "Let's do this then," she whispered. And then she was gone. A phantom of Harry's memory, Harry's imagination.


	13. A Taste of Something Different

Beater 2, Holyhead Harpies :)

Prompts:

12 (word) echo

14 (quote) 'I drink to make other people more interesting' - Ernest Hemingway

* * *

The room echoed with a sedate, classical music. The sort of music Astoria had grown up with. Somehow it wasn't her style anymore. The pale pink robes, be-laced, fully bedecked with every imaginable ounce of what could on be called "decorum" didn't quite suit her anymore either. It was Daphne, their mother, Pansy, but it wasn't her. Not now. Not for a long time. Maybe it never had been.

As a little girl, Astoria had loved these parties—bored out of her mind, falling asleep in her soup—she loved them, anticipated them. The rare moment of attention, the glamourous people, the pretty clothing. But what she'd loved most of all was the _importance_, the knowledge that she was one of them, that she was a part of this important group of people, with their important jobs and important connections. It wasn't until later that she began to understand concepts like "rich" or "elite," but that understanding had only deepened the pleasure that Astoria had felt at belonging to these people.

Eventually she grew up and ever so slowly she came to understand exactly what these people were and precisely what it meant to belong to them. The propriety grew stifling, the prejudice infuriating, the expectations exhausting. The glamour turned to ash before her eyes. And then they endured a war, a war that should have changed everything, but somehow changed nothing.

"Quite a farce, isn't it?"

Astoria glanced up, her eyes widening as she recognized the speaker as Draco Malfoy. She hadn't seen him since the war ended—neither had anyone else, so far as she knew—yet there he was: infamous recluse, ex-sycophant, disillusioned pretty boy, voicing her own cynical thoughts.

"Long time no see, Draco."

"Astoria Greengrass—charmed as ever."

So sardonic. So aloof. So different. It occurred to Astoria, suddenly, that maybe he'd moved past the spineless scandal he once was and become an actual person. Could such a thing even happen?

"You know my favourite thing about this little soirees?" Draco drawled, his words gently slurred.

Astoria cocked an eyebrow inquisitively.

Draco took this as an invitation in more ways than one, plunking himself down into a seat next to her. "My _favourite _thing about this parties, is the way that they're modeled on the Muggle aristocracy's. It's basically an ass-backwards celebration of Muggle culture that we think is a celebration of our own pureblood, opposite-of-Muggle supremacy. We're sticking it to the Muggles, as we flatter them with our blatant mimicry." He smirked. "And no one here is educated enough to have a bloody clue."

Astoria rolled her eyes. "I suspect your favourite thing about these 'soirees' is actually the alcohol."

Draco grinned. _Grinned_. "I drink to make people more interesting, love."

She snorted. "You'll need a lot more than alcohol to make _these_ people interesting."

"Worth listening to, you mean?" Draco said. "Absolutely. But I assure you they're much less tedious the drunker you get."

"I must not be getting drunk enough then, because I've always found the opposite to be true."

"That's entirely possible. Luckily there's a remedy." Draco gestured for more drinks and they appeared in a house elf-ish flash. He smirked over at her. "Drink up."

Astoria gazed into the glass he'd pushed into her hand, then at the room around her, at the people dancing and gossiping and making polite conversation. "What the hell," she muttered, and took a large gulp of fine, meant-to-be-sipped, goblin-made wine.

"Atta girl. We're going to have us some fun."

The next few glasses went down easy, and the conversation passed similarly, if conversation it could be called as it mostly consisted of mocking the other party-goers.

"Look there! Pansy's doing the chicken dance!" Draco snickered into his glass.

"She is _not_, Draco. Someone's just spilled their drink on her shoes." Astoria heard herself slur. It occurred to her, in a fleeting moment she barely caught notice of, that she was indecorously inebriated. The thought sort of thrilled her. She wondered if anyone would notice. She wondered what they'd say if they did.

"Chicken dance," he asserted firmly. His gaze darted quickly around them before he launched into a jerky imitation of Pansy's flailing.

"You're such an idiot," Astoria said, but she nonetheless couldn't prevent a bubble of laughter from escaping.

"I think it's less stupid to come up with ridiculous explanations," he retorted, though a flicker of emotion flashed across his face, "than it is to spend all my time frustrated with these people for _their_ stupidity."

She shrugged; he had her there.

"Tell me then," Draco said, regaining his aloofness, "are you sufficiently drunk?"

"To find everyone more interesting?"

Draco nodded.

"I suppose I am. More entertaining, certainly."

"Ah, well, we aren't doing it right, you know. We'll have to go and mingle for the full effect to become entirely evident."

Astoria wrinkled her nose. "You want to mingle?"

"Suddenly more than ever. Would you join me for a dance, fair lady?" he asked, with a smirk and an outstretched hand.

Astoria gazed at the hand. It all felt a bit surreal, and perhaps she oughtn't to have had so much to drink after all.

"Afraid what the gossips will say?" he challenged.

"Never!" she scoffed, indignant. Her hand slipped into his immediately and together they slipped out onto the dance floor where Draco rested her other hand on his shoulder. Had she been any more sober the moment would have been awkward. There was rather less space between them than there ought to have been. Astoria accepted that challenge too.

Eyes were on them. Many. She could feel them burning into the back of her head, her dress robes, could see the turned heads from the corners of her eyes. She held back a mad urge to flip them all off, and instead allowed Draco to lead them around the dance floor with surprising skill.

"Let them look," he whispered.

Astoria caught his gaze, then tore away from it, everywhere they touched suddenly on fire. Instinct screamed for her to pull away, to escape this situation she suddenly felt she had no control over. _And everyone was watching_. She didn't. Astoria took a deep breath, and pressed just a fraction of a centimeter closer. "What will they see?" she whispered back, her eyes meeting his again.

He smirked. "I guess we'll have to wait and see, won't we?"

Astoria glanced around at their audience, many of its members turning abruptly and obviously away. She smirked back. "I guess we will."


	14. Holding On and Letting Go

A/N: Submission for Beater 2 of Holyhead Harpies, Round 1 of Finals.

Prompts:

4\. (word) curious

8\. (word count) 1,000 (by Microsoft Word)

Characters:

Team: Oliver

Mine: George

* * *

It was an outrage, really, Oliver fumed. His team should be practicing—they faced the Holyhead Harpies, one of the best teams in the league, in just two days. They needed to work on a new defensive play he'd introduced to the team last week, and now that he'd moved from reserves to primary Keeper the pressure to win was heavier on his shoulders than ever. They had to win this season. They were going to. And that means practice time. Overtime. it meant focus and hardwork and commitment. Sweat and soul. Time in, time out.

But no. Of course not. Instead of preparing, they were enduring the 5th annual Battle of Hogwarts Memorial. The stupidity of it was driving him mental.

Some poor blighter was up front, droning on about valour and sacrifice and some such shit, and try as he might, Oliver couldn't stop the odd word from cutting in and breaking his otherwise steadfast focus on the things that mattered—Quidditch, namely. If they couldn't practice, he could at least spend some time visualizing. He hoped his fellow teammates were somewhere in the crowd doing the same, but he wasn't particularly optimistic. No one ever seemed to have the same drive as he did, and none of his teammates (even the ones who thought the memorial was lame) reckoned that Quidditch was truly more important than honouring a battle long-since fought.

"Here we stand, together, in honour of the bravery and sacrifice of those courageous few who—"

Oliver was curious whether anyone around him was counting the number of times the word "sacrifice" had come up thus far in the man's speech. Oliver had counted 12 so far and he wasn't even listening to the bloody thing.

Blah blah blah sacrifice blah blah blah. Well, Oliver had been there; he knew all about the sacrifices made. They still played out in his dreams sometimes. He sure as hell didn't need some political speech to remind him of them, and he doubted anyone else did. And anyway, they ought to be moving on, shouldn't they? Why dwell on the darkness of the past when there were brighter things to look forward to every day. He was tired of the world's need to sit around and cry about it over and over. Was tired of the bloody angst of it. It was time to go out and win Quidditch matches and go to work and bloody well move on.

"Oi, mate, you look a bit heated over here."

Oliver forced himself to take a deep, calming breath, and rolled his eyes. "Sure, George. I'm right furious."

The sarcasm didn't deflect his Hogwarts friend. "Don't be like that, Oliver. What's on your mind?"

Oliver shrugged. George had lost family in that fight; he didn't want to be too deprecating about the whole memorial thing, didn't know what it might mean to the guy.

George eyed him in a way that said the bloke was about to get real serious. "You think it's stupid."

Oliver shrugged noncommittally. "I'd just rather it didn't interfere with our practice, you know? More important things than living in the past."

"That what you think this is? A bunch of witches and wizards too afraid to let go and move on?"

That was exactly what he thought, but Oliver wasn't about to say so. He shrugged. "I don't know mate, I just don't see the point. It's been five years, hasn't it? Isn't it time to do away with all this?"

George sighed, his hand raking through his vibrant hair. "It's about remembering, Oliver, not about clinging to—"

"Like anyone's bloody going to forget," Oliver spat. He wasn't sure where the rage came from, he only knew that it was suddenly hot and writhing in his chest.

George frowned. "It isn't to make sure we don't forget it happened. We remember every year so that we don't forget that the world almost ended, that people almost did nothing but watch our world and the Muggles' crumble to pieces, that what made the difference was the select few—Dumbledore, Harry, his family and friends, Fred—who came together, who stepped up and saved us all, saved the world."

"So you're saying all this nonsense in a lesson in morality?" Oliver scoffed.

"It's a lesson, it's a warning, it's a message of hope… but at the end of the day, mate, it's also a chance to remember that we made it through, that good people died for that, and that everyone had a responsibility to step up to the broom and play."

"Well we were there, weren't we? We remember well enough, don't you think? Why do we have to be there?"

George laughed. "We make it real, mate. We do this every year to make people remember. It's not about healing, alright? It's about shoving it down everyone's throats until they get the message. It's about making sure that it never happens again. And you and me, Harry, Ron, Hermione… we have to be here. We have to put faces on it. We have to be here to look out at the crowds and shame them into holding onto that message."

Oliver glanced up into his friend's face, into the fierceness written there. Yeah, his friend was healing. He'd moved forward from his soul-wrenching agony over Fred's death. But George hadn't forgotten that Voldemort was the cause. He hadn't forgiven him, or anyone else. He hadn't moved on.

Impulsively, Oliver reached forward and pulled George into a close embrace. They passed a somber moment like that, no tears, just quiet, and then George let out a gentle laugh and pulled away. "Look at us, right blighters. Fred would have a heyday if he could see us now."

"Call us wankers, he would. And he'd be well in the right of it, wouldn't he?"

George grinned. "You good now?"

Images of quidditch matches and plays flitted briefly through Oliver's mind. And then faces replaced them. George, Lee, Tonks and her husband… Dumbledore.


	15. A Mad Dash Through Time

Finals Round 2

Holyhead Harpies Beater 2

Time Travel Fic

Prompts:

Choice (word)

Big Girls Cry (song)

* * *

Hermione had risen through the ranks of her department with astounding haste; that was all her friends and family were permitted to know about her job as an Unspeakable. When she'd first applied, her intention had been to study the phenomenon of love, to learn about the one impossible thing that had kept Harry safe for so many years.

It wasn't what anyone had expected from her. It wasn't what she'd expected from herself. But she had just survived the war, had spent years of her life fighting in the real world, fighting to save it. She wanted abstraction, to lose herself in the world of study, of theory and research. Her soul ached. She had no time for drama, no time for games. She just wanted to wash away all the things that had been taken from them. And the Department of Mysteries had seemed like just the place.

You don't get to choose in the Department of Mysteries, however; that's not how it works, and so, on her first day, she'd been directed instead to the Time room. She still had no clue how they'd known, but Time had been the perfect fit for her. She understood so much of its nature almost instinctively, and what she couldn't became an enigma she couldn't resist.

She was prodding at just such a problem when Terry Boot, also in her division, came barging into her office.

"Code Orange," he gasped. "Croaker's gone rogue!"

Hermione blinked dumbly. "Well why are you telling _me_?"

Terry strode forward and hauled her from her seat. "Head Honcho's sending you after him."

The next twenty minutes passed in a blur.

"Just remember, Croaker knows he's tagged, just as all other operatives are. He knows we can follow him through time, track his jumps. We don't know what his goals are, but we can be certain that he'll be aiming to lose you long enough for the trail to go cold. Expect to be following him through chaotic moments in the past-times and places in which you're most likely to be detained by circumstance." The Head of the Department of Mysteries eyed Hermione speculatively. "Be careful."

Hermione and the Obliviator, Bradley, who had been assigned to accompany her, exited the office. Her mind was reeling, but years with Harry meant that her composure remained calm. She merely led the way back to her office, her steps measured, her heart pounding.

Once inside, she closed the door and cast the tracking spell. "Ready?"

Obliviator Bradley swallowed thickly. "If we screw this up, we could change the future?"

Hermione nodded.

"Even erase ourselves?"

Hermione took a deep, steadying breath. "Let's just not screw up, alright?"

Bradley laughed shakily. "Right. Okay. Yeah… Let's do this then."

Hermione pulled a large, golden pocket watch from a drawer in her desk, calibrated it to the settings suggested by the spell, gripped Bradley's arm tightly, and clicked the knob into place.

The world around her shuddered, spun, melted away, reconstituted.

They were in her office once more, and it was otherwise empty. "Quick, we need to get out of here before anyone sees us."

"What year is it?" Bradley asked.

"1994." Hermione frowned. "We need to get to Hogwarts." She cast a quick Disillusionment on each of them. "We can apparate to Hogsmeade from the main foyer."

Together they rushed, as stealthily as possible, down to the only Apparation-friendly zone in the building, and then on to the Entrance Hall at Hogwarts.

"Why do we need to get into Hogwarts, again?" Bradley asked, as they crept through its darkened halls. "Couldn't we just have time-jumped from the Ministry?"

"The closer we are to where he jumped, the more accurate the tracking spell will be. If we aren't right where he was, we could be _years_ off. We'd lose the trail forever."

Silence fell for a few minutes.

"Why even do this?" Bradley asked, clearly unable to tolerate the silence. Hermione supposed he must be nervous. For her, this was a walk in the part compared to being on the run looking for Horcruxes. "What's his endgame? What does he want to change? _Can_ the past even be changed, really?"

Hermione glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "Why do you think you're here?"

"So he wants to change things. But what? And hasn't he been an Unspeakable forever? Why turn now? And-"

"Bradley, so help me God, if I have to silence you magically, I will. Pull yourself together. No one knows what Croaker's motives are. We don't know what he wants to change. Maybe he's gone loopy, maybe he was a Death Eater, maybe something's been eating at him a long while. It's all irrelevant. Our job is to bring him back to the Ministry, and to the proper time, and that's all we need to worry about for now. There will be plenty of time for questions later. Got it?"

This time the quiet lasted about thirty seconds. "Well, where are we headed, then?"

"The library," Hermione ground out.

Silence won from thereon out.

The library was quiet. It was late at night, and only a lone table remained occupied. Hermione winced as she recognized her own, exhausted form. She couldn't remember what she'd been researching in June of third year, but clearly it had been consuming.

"Isn't that-"

Hermione elbowed Bradley as she noticed a shadow move near younger-Hermione's table. She froze, watched as the figure rummaged through her bag before whoever it was noticed the gold chain around young-Hermione's neck. The shadow reached out, tentatively, and lifted the Time Turner from young-Hermione's neck.

Older-Hermione sputtered and strode forward, immediately indignant. "Just who do you think you-_Ronald_?"

Ronald Weasley glanced between the two versions of Hermione, eyes wide as a deer in headlights. "Hermione?" he said weakly.

"What are you _doing_?"

He was still looking back and forth between Hermione's. "I just-I wanted to-"

"Ronald Weasley!" she hissed. "Of all the irresponsible, selfish, inconsiderate, thoughtless things. What were you going to change?"

He flushed. "Well, we spent most of the last year fighting. And in light of Sirius and Scabbers and all… well, it seems a bit silly now. I thought maybe I could-"

"Oh, Ron," she said, her heart melting a little. "You foolish boy. You made your choice when I mistrusted the Firebolt, and you can't take it back now. Put the Time Turner back." She turned to Bradley. "Come here and fix this."

Quickly they put the situation to rights and re-cast the tracking spell.

"Didn't you just change the past?" Bradley asked.

Hermione shook her head. "I remember Ron and I fighting all year, so that means I was supposed to have put a stop to that. He never managed to change it."

"So… you'd already done it, you mean?"

"... Essentially."

"Time is so weird…"

"Essentially," Hermione said with a grin. "Now let's go. Croaker seems to have slipped into 1977. Marauders' Era."

"_What_ era?"

"Nevermind." She reached for his arm again, and once more the world dematerialized and rematerialized around them.

It was daytime, and a quick look out the window revealed that a Quidditch match was in full force. Hermione was just swallowing her slight disappointment at not being able to see any of the Marauders up close when a loud commotion rose from the stadium. Against her will, she found her eyes drawn to the field.

"I think a girl just appeared out of nowhere," Bradley said mildly, from his unabashed spectatorship at the windowsill.

Hermione frowned, cast a magnification spell on the window, and peered out.

"... Isn't that you?" Bradley said slowly.

Hermione let out a strangled gasp. "It can't be! I never-" Realization sunk in. "What do we _do_? We can't very well obliviate the whole school!" A note of panic entered her voice.

"You look in pretty bad shape. And look, some of the players are bringing you up to the school. Head 'em off at the Hospital Wing?"

"Good thinking," Hermione mumbled, her brain still trying to wrap around the fact that she was once in the Marauders' time.

They swept up to the Hospital Wing with all available haste, reaching it only moments before the Marauders themselves entered with a beaten-up and unconscious Hermione in tow. She watched as they shouted for Poppy and fussed over her, rolled her eyes at the way they did so, and then waited for them to leave.

"Make her forget, quick, while she's still asleep. We'll heal some of this up, and send her back."

"Back to when?" Bradley asked pointedly.

"Damn. Alright. _Ennervate!_" She allowed young-Hermione to gain her bearings briefly before stepping forward. "Hermione, try not to panic," she said. "I know this is a lot to take in all at once, but I'm future-you. And we're both in the 1970s right now. I'm not sure how you got here, but I need to know when you came from so that I can send you back."

Young-Hermione blinked just as she herself had done in her office earlier. Later? Hermione sighed internally. "How do I know you're me?"

Bradley laughed. "You're taking this awfully well."

Both Hermione's ignored him.

"Ask me a question only I would know the answer to."

Young-Hermione paused a while. "What did we find in the Forest of Dean?"

Hermione winced. "You came from the Battle, didn't you? That moment when everyone said they couldn't find me. The moment that made them all worry. This was it…"

"The Forest of Dean?" Young-Hermione reminded her.

"The sword."

Young-Hermione frowned as though trying to decide if that really meant she was who she said she was. Hermione cut across the thoughts, wordlessly casting healing spells as she went. "So yes? The battle at Hogwarts?"

Her younger version nodded absently. "Yes, but how can we possibly be-"

"_Obliviate!_"

They sent her back swiftly. "To the grounds," she said quietly. "And quick, before Madam Pomfrey comes back from wherever she went." They Disillusioned once more and carried on their way.

They passed through the decades at a steady but infuriatingly interrupted pace. No matter when they went, they always seemed to run into a time travel mess that needed to be cleaned up. Ginny trying to convert Riddle to the path of less-evil. Snape trying to undo his evil deeds after Lily's death. Harry trying to save Sirius. They even ran into Eloise Mintumble, the woman who first attempted to travel more than a few hours through time. Despite the rather messy ending to Eloise's story, Hermione forced herself not to interfere.

Finally, standing in the Founders' time, Hermione cast the tracking spell for what would be the last time. "What?"

"What's up?"

"It's pointing us back to the present. Croaker went back."

Bradley shrugged. "Maybe he realized he wasn't going to lose us and decided to just turn himself in."

Hermione eyed him skeptically.

"Only one way to find out," he said, reaching for Hermione's arm.

They apparated quickly from their location in Gloucester to the Ministry, and rushed down to the Department of Mysteries.

"It's definitely telling me he's in the Department Head's office," Hermione said, confused.

"Well, there you go. Turned himself in like a good, respectable chap would do. Probably was just off his head for the mo'."

Tentatively, Hermione knocked on the door.

"Go ahead and open the door, Unspeakable Granger. Obliviator Bradley can remain outside."

Hermione obeyed, stepped into the office, and shut the door behind her.

"I must say, you've performed admirably!" he said with a degree of cheerfulness that didn't quite feel consistent with the situation.

"I-thank you, sir. But it seems it was all for nothing."

"Not at all, Granger, not at all! You see, you've had the opportunity to prove yourself beyond a reasonable doubt, and you've done that most certainly indeed."

Hermione stared at him. "Are you saying this was some sort of test, sir?"

"Of sorts, yes. There were some messes to clean up, and I wanted to see how you'd handle yourself!"

"... You couldn't just have said so, sir?"

The Head of the Department of Mysteries chortled. "This way was just more fun, wouldn't you say?"

Hermione carefully kept her mouth shut. "Might I leave for the day, sir? It's been quite a time consuming one."

He chortled once more. "Indeed it has, Granger! Indeed it has!"


	16. The Wonderful Thing About Quidditch

Harpies' Character: Madam Hooch

Prompts: None

Beater 2 Prompt: Post-Retirment

* * *

Rolanda Hooch had never been great shakes at complicated magic or tricky equations. She'd never fostered much a love for reading or soliloquizing. In fact she'd always thought of herself as rather straightforward (though her husband insisted otherwise): she loved adventure, loved moving, loved the physical realm of exploration, she liked to try new things, and above all, she loved to fly.

Flying had come naturally to her from the very moment she first sat astride her Silver Arrow, first felt the wind brush, then whip through her hair. She still, nearly 100 years later, remembered every moment of her very first flight, savoured it in moments of solitude. Mind, she had many other moments to savour as well, had lived a full life.

And perhaps that's why she was so damned bored.

Despite her husband to bicker playfully with, despite the great-grandbabies' visits, despite the garden she so woefully neglected, Rolanda was finding retirement tedious.

Which was silly, she mused, as Hogwarts had never consumed much of her time anyway. Teaching first years to fly for a few hours a week, refereeing the few Quidditch matches. Yet somehow, it got her out of the house enough to keep her feeling occupied, useful. Now no number of Quidditch games with the children, or weeding the overrun garden could make her feel completely satisfied with the state of things.

The worst part of it was, she was beginning to get a bit moody about it, and she had no patience for moodiness in anybody, least of all herself.

"Andi, love," her husband said to her one morning over breakfast, "Look here, in the Prophet."

Rolanda sighed and searched for the patience to sit through another read-aloud from the paper. "What is it, Frank?"

He chuckled. "Don't give me that look, woman." He flipped the paper around so she could read it. "Now, don't judge too hastily, but read that advertisement just there."

She followed Frank's gesture to a small box that most people on the planet probably completely overlooked. Her gaze immediately jerked back up to his. "_Seniors' Quidditch_? You must be joking!"

"Andi, you need an excuse to get out of the house. You need an excuse to get out and have some fun. You need an excuse to go for a good ride—"

"I'm not old enough for _S__eniors'_ Quidditch," she huffed. "I'll _never_ be old enough. And don't you dare think otherwise, mister."

Frank grinned. "They might be a bunch of old geezers, but I bet you'd have a great time." He glanced at her slyly. "Maybe you could even teach them a thing or two."

Rolanda caught herself seriously considering the idea and flipped the paper shut. "Not a chance, old man. Eat your breakfast and leave the thinking to the prettier of us."

The idea haunted her over the next few weeks, regardless, and one day, upon weeding the entire garden and not even being granted the excitement of coming across a particularly disgusting bug, she finally conceded that maybe _Seniors' Quidditch_ (she couldn't even think the phrase without a mental note of disdain) was worth checking out, and resolved to do just that.

She daren't admit it to Frank, but she could tell he knew by the look in his eye when she said she was going out for a ride. "Don't hurry home. Take as much time as you need," he said with a smile.

Rolanda huffed, but on the inside she was smiling too. How did he always know her so well? Still, she reminded herself, she was only going to check it out.

The flight itself was spectacular. The sun was out, the weather was dry, and the wind kept the temperature just so. She let her eyes fall shut on occasion and revelled in the rightness of the feeling. She'd never understand, despite the time factor, why anyone would choose to Apparate instead.

She arrived at the pitch just as their practice was beginning, and took a seat in the tiny, clearly unoptimistic, stands off to the side.

She was the only one in the audience, and she soon saw why.

They were only running drills, but it was immediately clear that though some of them were at least somewhat competent, most of the players were ridiculously underskilled. Rolanda looked on as they fumbled simple passes, flew choppily at best, dropped balls altogether, and generally devolved into chaos, as the tired-looking coach looked on hopelessly.

Her fingers itched to grab her broom, fly up, and rectify the situation. Did this man have no idea what he was doing? By the time he finally blew the whistle and sent everyone to the changing rooms, Rolanda was just about ready to storm the pitch. Instead, she hopped on her broom and headed straight home, letting the flight soothe her fraying nerves.

Frank didn't ask how it had gone, he knew her well enough to know she'd talk when she was ready to. He merely slid a plate of dinner in front of her, kissed her on the temple, and left to listen to the Wireless.

Rolanda vowed she'd have nothing to do with the mess that was Seniors' Quidditch, and soon went to bed.

Still, somehow, the same time next week, she found herself dismounting from her broom at the pitch, hoping that perhaps she'd just caught them on an off day. She allowed herself this delusion for the first fifteen minutes of the practice. She wrestled with her dismay and frustration for another five. Then she mounted her broom, kicked off, and joined the players in the air.

"You there," she shouted, gesturing to a nearby 'geezer'. "You're doing it wrong. You cradle the ball as you catch it, let it fall _into_ your hands, don't bat at it." She swirled around. "And _you_, Seeker! I've seen the snitch at least three times since it was released. You're never going to spy it whilst you're flying in the midst of everyone else. Get yourself a vantage point!"

"Er… 'scuse me, Madam, might I ask what you think you're doing here? This is—"

Rolanda whirled on the coach. "A travesty, sir. It's a travesty."

"Well," the man said, "pardon my saying so, but it's Seniors' Quidditch. It's bound to be a bit of a mess init?"

Rolanda fixed him with her sharp, yellow gaze. "Not anymore it won't be. You've just been demoted to assistant coach, and you and I are going to whip these folks into shape. Got me?"

"I—uh—"

"Excellent. Now go fetch me some parchment, will you?" She didn't wait for a response, but immediately flew back into the ruckus and began barking out instructions. A sense of peace began to settle over her—until she considered the knowing smirk that she'd find on Frank's face when she got home. She smirked one of her own. Maybe he hadn't been so ridiculous after all.


End file.
